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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232779">Down to You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings'>Castielslostwings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Artist Dean Winchester, CEO Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel parenting Claire, Dean is NOT into the idea of "true mates", Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, Free Will, Getting Together, Infertility, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bond, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Omega Dean Winchester, Painter Dean Winchester, Rich Castiel (Supernatural), Scenting, Smart Dean Winchester, Social Justice, Switching, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, True Mates, anti-patriarchy themes, but it's not that serious, courting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:07:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>58,051</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When powerful, successful billionaire and alpha, Castiel Novak makes an innocuous trip to check out a local painter who is using Novak Corp's trademark eco-car to advertise his services, the last thing Castiel expects to find in the little artisan shop is his True Mate. The <i>second</i> to last thing he expects to find is that said True Mate is a fiercely stubborn, headstrong omega who cares a <i>lot</i> more about telling fate and destiny to go screw themselves than giving Castiel even a minute of his time. </p><p>That's fine, Castiel didn't get where he is by backing down from a challenge.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Background Sam/Eileen - Relationship, Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>941</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>FicFacer$ 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Above it All</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizerd70/gifts">lizerd70</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello friends and welcome to another WIP!!</p><p>This one is brought to you courtesy of @Lizerd70, who is just the most wonderful, generous, and fun person and had some really great ideas for this that I never would have thought of on my own!! Chapters will be posted weekly or sooner. I'm really enjoying this story, so I'm expecting it to move right along.</p><p>The Cas-character in this one is basically an Elon Musk, but unlike Elon this Cas is teachable and cares a LOT about making the world a better place, he just doesn't always know the right way to go about that. Enter: Dean. :-D</p><p>Also: a huge thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTwistedWillow/pseuds/TheTwistedWillow">TheTwistedWillow</a> for the last-minute edit!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>From his place at his desk, Castiel can smell the stench of Zachariah’s furious anxiety from all the way down the hall. Maybe even before he gets off the elevator, though that’s a stretch. Sighing, Castiel puts his pen down and rubs at his temples. His Senior Financial Advisor only gets this worked up when money is involved, and whatever it is, Zachariah will undoubtedly refuse to leave his office until Castiel agrees to take care of it. Great with money, terrible with people, Zachariah is an asset to the company and Castiel <em> will </em> remind himself of that on repeat and <em> will not </em>fire him simply because he can’t stand the sound of his voice or the stink of his pheromones.</p><p>It’s times like these that he almost wishes he’d succumbed to societal norms and enforced a standard blocker policy for Novak Corp when he’d taken over officially, but <em> no, </em>no, Castiel knows that’s wrong, too. No one should have to hide who they are just to be taken seriously in the workplace. He’s trying—society might be changing but not everyone agrees that it should, and Castiel still has a lot of unlearning of his own to do. </p><p>He groans and stretches, flexing his toes inside his expensive leather shoes and pushing his plush, winged chair away from his expansive desk. Castiel can hear Zachariah arguing with Becky about his need to be seen by Castiel <em> right now, </em> refusing to take no for an answer<em>. </em>He bites back a smile as he thinks about Becky doing her best to enforce Castiel’s secret, “Zachariah is never welcome unless I call for him,” rule. By his own estimation, Castiel has the better part of a minute until the man comes charging in anyway. </p><p>Stiff from the last few hours of endless paperwork, Castiel rolls his shoulders and makes his way over to the far wall of his office, the one that’s constructed completely out of glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows and a door that leads out onto a balcony, all overlooking the expanse of Hollywood Boulevard below, the city of Los Angeles as a whole, plus the surrounding hills and mountains beyond. On the other side of Novak Corp’s skyscraper, one can see all the way to the Pacific Ocean, one of the few buildings downtown that’s high enough and positioned properly to do so.</p><p>Castiel gazes out over the landscapes and feels… very little. Perhaps that’s unfair—he feels pride, certainly, for what he’s built and how far he’s come. Taking the multimillion-dollar business his father created from scratch in the garage of Castiel’s childhood home in Riverside and turning it into <em>this—</em>Castiel is neither stupid nor self-deprecating. He knows his worth, is fully aware of how impressive not only his company is, but adjacently, the kind of man he<em>, </em>himself has become right alongside. </p><p>“Mogul,” is the objective word for it, Castiel supposes, and it’s true (not just in his own mind), though Castiel greatly prefers other descriptors. Engineer, for instance. Industrial designer. Technology entrepreneur. Philanthropist. His “C.E.O.” title at Novak Corp isn’t entirely encompassing either—at least, it’s not the whole story. </p><p>Technically, Novak Corp is a parent company to several others and Castiel holds positions as the Chief Executive Officer of each, but it’s simply easier to collect them all under an umbrella as such. He’s a bit of a jack of all trades at this point—having dabbled in nearly every field to get where he is, his accumulated wealth ensuring that his investments and companies end up on top.</p><p><em> “Where he is,” </em> being somewhere around the fifteenth or sixteenth richest billionaire in the world, according to <em> Forbes</em>. Castiel’s actual daily ranking depends on what exactly his portfolio is doing and whether Michael Bloomberg’s investments are up or down at the moment, but his standing is pretty solid. Perhaps he’d be higher on the list, but his donations to charity are in the billions themselves. It is just, as Castiel has learned, <em> impossible </em> to get rid of tens of <em> billions </em>of dollars, once you have amassed that sort of fortune. </p><p>He’s tried.</p><p>As such, Castiel’s goals have shifted in recent years, moving on from <em> making </em>a lot of money to finding ways to give back to the world. His money makes exorbitant amounts of interest regardless of what he does, and Castiel isn’t greedy. He has programs in development for innovative new versions of public transport, for rethinking and transforming energy and power systems, especially in disaster areas. He even has a space exploration program that’s aimed at sending a group of astronauts to Mars with the intention of colonizing it. All of those things and more are under the “Novak Corp” name, but each of them are a separate division with their own individual structures.</p><p>The truth is, Castiel doesn’t have much input into the day-to-day operations of any of it. He <em> can </em> contribute<em>, </em>of course, but really, Castiel’s found the best thing to do with such a diverse portfolio is thus: hire hundreds of people who are smarter than he is, give them the tools and the resources to do what they do best, and stay out of the way. As he’s come to realize, sometimes it’s best to simply let his money talk and to keep within his lane. He tends to focus his efforts on doing just that, which is what he’s been up to today—signing authorizations and such, reviewing various project proposals, and ensuring his monthly charitable donations are being directed properly to where they can do the most good.</p><p>He also rubber-stamped another major sewage and irrigation overhaul for a large section of Flint, Michigan that will ultimately provide clean water for several schools and an impoverished neighborhood, since the federal government doesn’t seem to give one tiny shit about anyone who lives there. It’s the third such project he’s organized and funded completely on his own since the crisis started, and it’s still not enough. Unfortunately, the local red tape has been a nightmare to cut through. It’s almost as if they don’t <em> want </em>to fix the water.</p><p>Zachariah is still yelling at Becky, who is doing an <em> outstanding </em>job of holding him at bay. Castiel takes the opportunity to slip outside and breathe in some fresh air. The wind whips roughly at his face as soon as he walks out onto the balcony, and while it’s probably around seventy degrees on the ground, it’s much cooler up here. Castiel pulls his designer suit jacket more tightly around his waist and turns his face up to the sun. </p><p>By all rights, this little walkabout shouldn’t exist. It’s a violation of several city codes to not be enclosed all the way up here on the fiftieth floor. But money talks, and Castiel figures if buying himself access to fresh air is the worst thing he’s doing with his, his internal corruption meter says he’s still fairly under control. </p><p>From somewhere behind him and beyond the glass wall, Castiel can hear his office door slam shut. <em> Reprieve ended. </em> He vaguely regrets not hopping onto the elevator at the far end of his office suite when he had the chance. After all, it’s private, inaccessible by anyone without the code <em> and </em> an authorized handprint, and would have taken Castiel directly to either his quarters or down to his parking garage. <em> Sweet, sweet freedom.  </em></p><p>Few Novak Corp employees know why, but the twenty-first floor of the main building is actually entirely missing from all public access points and elevators. When using the public stairs, there are no doors that lead to it. While riding the lift, there are no buttons to take you there. Castiel’s heard the scuttle, of course, and it amuses him greatly. Most of his employees assume it’s because he has some sort of top-secret, government-security-clearance-required project going on down there. The theory is very on-brand to the type of man Castiel is and the power he wields in general, but the truth is much more mundane.</p><p>Castiel lives there. </p><p>Well, <em> technically </em> he lives in Bel-Air, but Castiel does his best not to actually set foot in the sprawling estate he owns more often than absolutely necessary. In reality, his parents live there and Claire, his niece, splits her time. Castiel would just as soon never visit and never see his parents again, since all they <em> ever </em>do when he does is complain that he hasn’t mated or produced an heir. They worry, fine, but Castiel doesn’t. He’ll write off his entire fortune to charity when he dies if that’s what it comes down to, and think nothing more of it. </p><p>Really, <em> Claire </em>should be his heir—that’s what Castiel would choose, if he could. But Claire is an omega, and the world—well, the world won’t accept her like that. The reality of their anachronistic society is what it is, no matter what Castiel may wish and how hard he works to change his own corner. Best not to dwell on it too much. At the end of the day, Castiel’s still working on moving gravel; the mountains will have to wait.</p><p>Also, in technicality, Castiel’s parents are Claire’s official custodians. On the other hand, she’s nearly eighteen, and Castiel knows that he’s the closest thing to a father she has left. Which is why down on the twenty-first floor, where he spends most of his off-hours, Claire has an entire suite that is hers to do with what she wishes, plus the ability to come and go via the private entrances freely.</p><p>Novak Corp is more than just a single building—and the one adjacent to the main skyscraper on the north side is only twenty stories high. Its roof was therefore perfect for Castiel to convert into a sort of outside oasis, that from above simply appears to be a sky-light dotted pavilion of unknown praxis. As a billionaire, his resources are unlimited—he could live anywhere, <em> be </em>anywhere in or outside of L.A. in minutes using his own helicopter, but Castiel is just not a high-maintenance man. </p><p>He likes the accessibility of living in the building he works in. He likes his suite; it’s luxurious and has every comfort and amenity he could wish for right at his fingertips. But it isn’t more than he needs, the way the house in Bel-Air is. It isn’t decadence for decadence’s sake. In fact, if he weren’t so busy, he would forgo even having a housekeeper, a butler, and a cook, and do for himself. It’s only because of who he is and what he does that renders those things an absolute necessity—otherwise, Castiel would never eat, never have clean clothes to wear, and his furniture would be barely visible under the layer of dust. </p><p>At least, these are the things Castiel tells himself to justify the way that he lives. He knows that he does a lot of good, tries his best to ensure that he continues to do so. But being a billionaire also comes with the perpetual discomfort of knowing that his wealth inevitably comes at the expense of so many regular, hard-working people. That is a fact. Castiel is not a delusional or egotistical man—he might have turned out that way, had it not been for the devastating experience of losing his brother and subsequently helping to raise Claire, but—he can admit that he doesn’t <em> deserve </em> this life more than anyone else in particular. He often wonders if he’s doing <em> enough </em>with it, as is. </p><p>Zachariah finds him easily, not that Castiel was trying to hide. He pushes open the glass door with some difficulty—the wind pushes back, as if in defense of Castiel’s sanctuary. Watching with poorly-concealed merriment, Castiel again tries not to smile as Zachariah struggles. He’s not a fit man—and that’s another way in which they differ; Castiel takes pride in keeping himself strong and muscular, healthy. Being rich is no excuse to devolve. </p><p>Plus, <em> looking </em> the part of an alpha goes a long way with his investors, allies, and employees alike—people <em> trust </em>alpha leaders that physically fit the role, and Castiel does. They’re also a lot more likely to accept the status of a progressive company like Novak Corp when headed by someone who visually embodies the characteristics of a traditional leader. Another thing that Castiel acknowledges and accepts as shitty, but it’s simply a fact. A company which not only employs omegas but allows them to advance in the ranks and climb the ladder of the company equally, on their own merit, is not a common thing in their society. </p><p>It’s just another way that Castiel is determined to do his part to make both his money and his wielded influence talk—set an example and the world will follow. Still, if he had a nickel for every time someone had something to say about his Head of Sales and Marketing not only being an omega, but a <em> deaf </em> one—well, he doesn’t need more nickels, but it <em> does </em>make Castiel’s blood boil. Not that Eileen needs Castiel to defend her—two minutes with anyone who doubts her is usually enough to convert them into a believer, but the attitude is still paternalistic, antiquated, and grossly unfair.  </p><p>Castiel’s entirely partial to her, though, both as a person and as an employee. She’s more than earned her stripes—worked twice as hard to be considered half as good by many, though not him. As far as Castiel is concerned, Eileen is the best at what she does and Novak Corp is lucky to have her, no matter what anyone else thinks. Which is why he’s not at all pleased to hear her name come out of Zachariah’s mouth in the derisive manner which he comes out swinging. </p><p>“That Leahy omega,” he spits, without so much as a, “Good afternoon, sir,” not that Castiel is really expecting it. </p><p>“Eileen,” Castiel corrects evenly, pleased to see that Zachariah’s choice to hang half out of the door has backfired on him as the wind hits it hard, slamming into his ribs. “Her name is Eileen, and she’s nearly your professional equal, you know.”</p><p>Ignoring that, Zachariah fights with the door, albeit unsuccessfully. “Can’t we continue this inside, Novak? Never understood how you can stand it out here.” He disappears and lets the door close behind him before Castiel can so much as reply, but that behavior is par for the course for him. Castiel resents it, but replacing Zachariah is more trouble than it’s worth. On the whole, he makes and saves the company millions per quarter, catches thousands of incredibly costly mistakes, and frequently readjusts Castiel’s frame of mind when he becomes too lavish with his donations. He’s a counter-force to Castiel’s wild empathy, and that is not a bad thing. Novak Corp is a business, and people like Zachariah are necessary. </p><p>Striding back inside (and making easy work of the door, just to spite his advisor), Castiel resents the stuffiness of his office immediately. The sweaty, pine-laced odor of Zachariah’s irritation fills the space with its unappetizing, fetid stink. No matter what neutralizers Castiel sprays once he leaves, the lingering effects are unlikely to dissipate for hours.</p><p>He decides to check with Becky about his calendar for the rest of the day, see if he can clear some room for an impromptu escape. Perhaps Claire would like to fly out to the coast this evening; have some dinner, take a walk along the beach. Castiel’s peripherally aware that she’s been seeing some local alpha girl romantically, but he’s been busy and Claire hasn’t yet offered for them to meet. Perhaps he can change that with some good old-fashioned bribery.</p><p>It’s only after he’s been spinning in his chair for several minutes that Castiel even realizes he’s forgotten to listen to Zachariah, and he looks up guiltily. The man is already glaring back, clearly having already discerned the same thing, and he throws up his arms, round face going red all the way up to his balding scalp. The smell in the air turns even more sour, and Castiel’s years of practice in keeping his face neutral are barely enough to get him by.</p><p>“Apologies,” Castiel says, as genuinely as he can muster. He sits up straight and folds his hands across his desk, subtly grazing the neutralizer button tucked under the edge. The air will begin circulating aggressively soon enough. “You don’t need to explain it all again, just the highlights.” </p><p>“Those <em>were </em>the highlights,” Zachariah huffs, but he plops violently into a chair on the other side of Castiel’s desk and smacks a piece of paper down in front of him. “This,” he says, jabbing a plump finger down in the middle of it, leaving an unsightly crease. “Is an email from a high-profile Gracela customer <em> thanking </em>Ms. Leahy for her recommendation of a local artist for a custom paint job.” </p><p>
  <em> Gracela. Okay, so this is something related to Castiel’s popular eco-car line.  </em>
</p><p>Scanning the text quickly, Castiel fails to grasp what Zachariah is so upset about. Customer service for the Gracelas isn’t something he usually has anything at all to do with, but from what he can see, this person—<em>oh, </em> he notices, <em> they are famous—</em>appears extremely satisfied. If anything, the letter is a credit to Eileen’s value, she went above and beyond to assist the customer in getting what they wanted. The Gracelas can be ordered in a small range of classic colors, but the kind of design this person wanted isn’t anything they offer in-house.</p><p>“I fail to see the issue here,” Castiel admits. “The customer was happy and it appears we helped boost a local business. What exactly is your problem with Eileen?” </p><p>“My <em>problem,</em>” Zachariah continues, “is two-fold. Number one, this is not the first customer Ms. Leahy has directed to…” He pauses to scan the paper and confirm the name. “<em>Winchester Custom Cars. </em> I did some digging, Castiel, and she is engaged to the brother of the man who owns this place.” </p><p>“The bro—” Castiel frowns. “No, Eileen is engaged to Sam Winchester, from Legal.” </p><p>“That’s the brother of <em>this </em>guy,” Zachariah insists, stabbing at the paper with his finger again. “She’s funneling business to him using <em> our </em> cars and <em> our </em>company name to do so.”</p><p>“Alright,” Castiel says slowly. “Perhaps she should have run this by me, but I still don’t see the harm. It’s not as if custom paint is a service Novak Corp provides, so—”</p><p>“Uh, no,” Zachariah interrupts, gaping at Castiel like he’s an idiot. “But Leahy is Sales and Marketing. That’s her <em> job. </em>If she knew this was a niche opportunity, she should have brought it to you as a potential expansion idea, not outsourced it to some pleb omega with a paintbrush.” </p><p>Castiel leans back in his chair and scratches his chin. In truth, Zachariah isn’t entirely wrong, and this is exactly the sort of thing Castiel relies on him to point out. He knows he has a blindspot for helping others, but perhaps there’s some truth to the idea that if there’s a market for custom-painting Gracelas, <em> they </em> should be the ones cornering it. Still, the idea of putting some hardworking local artist out of business just to make a few extra bucks doesn’t sit will with Castiel <em> at </em>all. </p><p>“There’s more,” Zachariah continues, getting up and wandering over to Castiel’s liquor cart. Without asking, he pours himself a generous two fingers of Macallan before returning to his seat, offering none to Castiel. </p><p>“Of course there is,” Castiel sighs. </p><p>“The <em> omega—</em>” Zachariah says the word like it tastes bad. “—stealing our potential business is also <em> using </em>the Gracela name to advertise his services. Winchester Custom Cars markets directly and specifically to Gracela owners on almost all of their promotional materials and signage.” </p><p>“Ironically, this seems like something we should consult Legal on. However—”</p><p>“I’ve spoken to the alpha Winchester, the one we have on payroll. Lot of potential there, kid’s smart, no doubt he had a hand in this. Gave his brother some advice on how to walk the line. Anyway, what the omega is doing isn’t <em> strictly </em> illegal, but it’s in our purview to send him a cease and desist. From what I can see, the Gracelas are at least half of his business, losing that will probably send him under. Serves him right.” Zachariah snorts. “You know what? I’ll have his brother draft up the paperwork—kill two birds with one stone, make sure <em> Sam </em>understands his place and where his loyalty needs to lie.” </p><p>“Did you do that yet? Tell Sam we were going to go after his brother?” </p><p>“No, but I can—”</p><p>“Hold off,” Castiel instructs, tone brooking no argument, and the vindictive smile falls off of Zachariah’s face like leaves from a tree in autumn. </p><p>“But, sir—”</p><p>“I understand your concerns, here,” Castiel says thoughtfully, leaning forward again and drumming his fingers on his desk. “I do. And the Gracela <em> is </em>our intellectual property. But as you know, I care a lot about this community and the people in it. I’m going to give this some thought, and I’ll get back to you by tomorrow with how I’d like to proceed. Perhaps there is a solution that can benefit us all.” </p><p>“But—”</p><p>“Don’t say another word to Eileen <em> or </em>Sam until you hear from me. Understood? That’s all,” Castiel replies airily, with a dismissive wave of his hand. As Zachariah storms out, Castiel continues twisting in his chair, working a pen between his fingers. He doesn’t know Sam Winchester well, but he’s worked with him enough to know that the man has integrity, scruples that Castiel admires. And he’s Eileen’s fiancé, which automatically lends him some credit. Perhaps he should be annoyed with Eileen, for going about this the way that she did, but at the end of the day, the money Novak Corp would make from having a custom paint artist on staff is fairly negligible, considering. </p><p>No doubt, Eileen would have thought of that. She <em> also </em> would have weighed the risk to her career in ignoring the potential income source, and she clearly decided it was worth it. Being personally privileged to what Eileen has gone through to get where she is, Castiel understands that’s no small thing. And involving <em> Sam </em>to ensure they skated right along the edge of legality—again, it should infuriate Castiel, but it really just amuses him.</p><p>This omega that two of his brightest employees had gone to such lengths to help at such great personal risk must be <em> very </em> special, indeed. Castiel looks down, reads the content of the email once more. <em> Dean Winchester, </em>he comes up with. That’s the name of omega man who owns the shop, the artist whose work their famous customer was so pleased with. </p><p><em> Hmm, </em>Castiel thinks. Perhaps he’ll need to scrap that trip to the beach with Claire, after all. Or at least postpone until the weekend. No harm done, he hasn’t even asked yet, although he does send off a quick text while he’s thinking about her to see where she’s sleeping tonight. Whistling a little, Castiel pokes his head out of his office to let Becky know he’s leaving before heading over to the lockbox on the wall next to the elevator. </p><p>Spinning the combination number to number until it clicks open, Castiel selects the keys for a particular car, one that <em> just </em>came into his personal inventory not two weeks prior. It’s perfect for what he has in mind. He tosses the keys in his hand as he closes the safe, stepping into the elevator and feeling more upbeat than he has all day. An outing is just what he needs, and this situation clearly needs to be investigated first-hand, with everything that’s at stake. </p><p>As the metal box descends rapidly to his personal garage, a strange chill runs down Castiel’s spine. There’s no reason for it and he tries to brush it off, but there’s just <em> something </em>about this whole thing that he can’t quite put his finger on, something driving Castiel towards getting involved personally.</p><p><em> No need to dwell on the why, </em> he supposes. After all, he’ll find out soon enough whether his instincts are right. </p><p>It’s time to pay Dean Winchester, of <em> Winchester Custom Cars, </em>a visit. </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>oh em gee, what is going to happen?! lol</p><p>Required AO3 disclaimer: This story is not affiliated, associated, endorsed by, or in any way officially connected with Random Acts, or any of its subsidiaries or its affiliates. All donations have been paid directly to Random Acts, who do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in the stories.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Crash Into Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's not that Castiel assumes the world revolves around him. It's more that he's surprised whenever it doesn't. Dean, on the other hand, has no such expectations.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for all of the kudos and comments, they really help motivate me to write faster. :-D</p><p>Thank you again to TheTwistedWillow for the editing assist :-D</p><p>Chapter warnings for brief mentions of social justice issues and Cas having some somewhat patronizing thoughts about omegas.<br/>Get him, Dean! Oops, I'm ahead of myself.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are perks to being the big boss, and this is definitely one of them. A fleet of environmentally friendly, brand-new automobiles at his fingertips—each one top of the line, fully-loaded and kept charged at all times. If you drive a Gracela in L.A. and you <em> aren’t </em>Castiel Novak (or an employee of Novak Corp), your charging options are limited to buying the equipment to do so at home, or visiting one of the Supercharging stations scattered through the greater Los Angeles metro. While Novak Corp has plans to construct many more, Castiel has heard through the grapevine that there currently aren’t nearly enough, and that there is often quite a wait to refuel. </p><p>Castiel, on the other hand, has a supercharging station in his garage. Why wouldn’t he?</p><p>He <em> also </em> has the keys to <em> two </em>brand-new vehicles, hot off the assembly line. One Gracela Model S, hybridized specifically for Castiel to give the sedan-model the high-performance of an X, as well as to support integration of his iPhone to the hands-free touchscreen controls. That’s not a standard feature offered to the public, and another reason why it’s good to be the king. The other car is the test-spec model for Gracela’s 2021 Roadster, the flashier option built to compete directly with high-end sports cars. </p><p>The Roadster is sleek and long-slung, and Castiel eyes it longingly as he hesitates in the middle of the garage. His footsteps echo as he paces, torn. While he would <em> love </em>nothing more than to take the $200,000 dollar car out for a ride and push its limits, it’s fairly useless for the mission he’s about to undertake. Dean paints Gracelas; the Roadster’s frame and finish is nothing even close to what the sedan-like S or the crossover-style X look like. Even worse, the Roadster’s mere presence would almost certainly out Castiel for who he is, considering it isn’t even available on the market yet. If Dean were to recognize it (which he should, if he’s in any way keeping up with the company or planning for the future), that would be game over in a heartbeat.</p><p>All that to say, Castiel inevitably winds up leaving his toy in its parking space, opting instead to rev up his custom Model S. Rolling the windows down, he exits his personal garage through a remote operated door that dumps him into a short tunnel leading out to the employees’ underground parking structure. Castiel waves as he navigates through the manned security barriers and out onto the sun-lit street, enjoying the freedom of being back behind the wheel.</p><p>Too often, other people are the ones doing the driving for him—it frees Castiel up to work in the back or to give Claire his full attention. But at the end of the day, Castiel <em> likes </em> doing for himself, likes being <em> by </em> himself on occasion, with the ability to go where he pleases, to make a right instead of a left <em> just </em>because he can. It’s a very strange thing to complain about, and Castiel is fully aware of how privileged he is that this is even a concern he holds. Still, these are the realities of his life. </p><p>Out on the street, he realizes he was right about the temperature; it feels twenty degrees warmer down here than out on his office balcony, and not nearly as windy. Castiel wishes he’d taken his suit jacket off before driving, but it’s too late now. He <em> could </em>activate the car’s autopilot while he strips, but the streets are crowded for midday, and Castiel’s found it makes him nervous to relinquish that kind of control in dense traffic. His driving skills are rusty enough as it is.</p><p>The ride to Winchester Custom Cars is smooth and uneventful, though Castiel’s somewhat disheartened to see that the shop is located only a few blocks from the worst parts of Skid Row. As he navigates the edges of a clustered tent city, he speaks out loud, sending himself a voice memo reminder to make a trip back down soon to see how he can help directly. Castiel tries to visit the impoverished area at least once a month, bringing food and supplies and money, but never <em> as </em>himself, that would be too dangerous. </p><p>Even undercover, he’s managed to get quite a few people into apartments they otherwise wouldn’t have been considered for, to get them reliable access to food and back on their feet. Novak Corp has an entire hiring sector dedicated to recruiting at-risk populations and giving them meaningful work that goes hand-in-hand with the housing program. It wasn’t hard for Castiel to find a local apartment building at-risk for gentrification and to quietly scoop it up for his own purposes. There’s still a long way to go—not everyone is someone who can work, and Castiel makes sure to do his share of simply handing people money and letting them decide what to do with it.</p><p>So he’s not afraid of Skid Row, but Castiel worries about Dean and Winchester Custom Cars, what it means that this is the location in which they could afford to set up. Once again, something awful twists inside of him at the thought of attempting to put someone like Dean out of business for the sake of making a(nother) measly buck. It would be an ugly thing to do, Castiel can’t imagine how he’d ever live with himself. It’s good that he came, but what does it say about him that he <em> had </em>to get out of the office in order to see things so clearly? </p><p>Not for the first time, Castiel worries deeply about Zachariah’s influence over him, and whether the man is as necessary and important to have around as he tells himself. </p><p>Bracing himself for the worst, Castiel navigates his Gracela down the side street that his GPS tells him Winchester Custom Cars is located on. The cement is cracked and pockmarked with holes while crumbling, multi-storied brick boxes him in on either side of the vehicle. The buildings lining the street are dirty, faded, and industrial, tucked almost seamlessly close together save for a rare damp-looking little alley carved out in between. </p><p><em> Not a great sign, </em>Castiel thinks to himself, when suddenly, he’s proven very wrong. </p><p>The right side of the street gives way beyond the overgrown sidewalk to a small parking area, framed with a sturdy-looking metal gate that Castiel bets is barred on the opposite side. The gate is currently pushed wide to reveal an assortment of Gracelas, all boasting stunning custom paint jobs. As Castiel slows his own car and peers at them over his sunglasses, he has to admit, Dean’s work is even more impressive in person. From glittery pink to sunset orange, to rainbow-toned and even a holographic silver, Castiel’s signature red number feels dull and boring in comparison. </p><p>He manages to tear his eyes away from the display and locate the shop, which is unsurprisingly adjacent to the lot. It appears to be made up of two previously distinct buildings now melded together; a two-story office with what looks to be living space on top and an attached triple garage. All three bay doors of the garage are currently raised, and what sounds like classic rock (Led Zeppelin, if Castiel isn’t mistaken) is blaring unapologetically from inside.</p><p>Easing the Gracela to a stop in front of the shop portion, Castiel takes it all in. Sure, there are bars on the windows and an iron grate on the front door, but lots of city businesses have those. Aside from that, the place seems… <em> lively. </em> Welcoming. Certainly, a <em> lot </em> homier than Castiel expected to find in this part of town, and much less depressing. </p><p>“<em>Winchester Custom Cars” </em>is burned onto a wooden sign that hangs just below the eaves of the second-floor windows, and there are flower boxes secured on each sill of those on the first floor. Two giant planters with daffodils overflowing their edges frame the front door. The contrast between the soft pops of floral color and the iron bars is striking, and something that Castiel’s already decided says a lot about Dean.</p><p>On the brick buildings framing either side of Dean’s space and the industrial-looking warehouse slumped in the lot across the street, graffiti covers the exterior walls from top to bottom. </p><p>Except, on closer inspection, Castiel realizes it’s not the standard bubble letters and tags that litter so much of the city, it’s—strangely enough—<em>art. </em>The colors are bright and eye-catching, rainbows and neons that have nothing to do with gang signs or territory marking. In the lines and whorls of paint, Castiel can see smiling faces of varying skin tones, all sorts of lgbtq+ spectrum flags, and—he tips his head to the side, studying the wall carefully—what appears to be a giant unicorn pooping rainbows. Woven through it all is a realistically-drawn scroll with the words, “Omega rights are human rights!”</p><p>When Castiel finally turns around, he notices the same stickers adorning the inside of the windows of the shop. Not only all of the lgbtq+ flags painted across the way, but also a ton of trans solidarity, Black Lives Matter, pro-immigrant, and Omega equality slogans. This would be an impressive display for any business—God knows, Castiel’s seen bigger stores go under for less brazen viewpoints—but <em> here, </em>in this neighborhood? Castiel can’t imagine it’s making Dean any safer. </p><p>It’s almost <em> certainly </em>lost him customers—knowing the kind of clientele who buy Gracelas and have the money to blow on elaborate customizations, of that Castiel is sure. He glances up, noting the way the open windows upstairs look to have soft curtains framing the inner glass as they rustle in the soft breeze, and he wonders if Dean lives here. Wonders how safe it can possibly be for him to do so, especially as an omega. Wonders if he has a mate to protect him. </p><p>For whatever reason, that thought makes Castiel bristle a little. Alarmed, he shakes the feeling off quickly—he hasn’t even <em> met </em> Dean yet, so it’s bizarre that any part of his inner alpha would have anything to say about the way that the man lives. <em> Strange, </em>Castiel thinks. He really does need to get out of the office more. </p><p>Stepping up to the shop’s front door, Castiel cups a hand over his eyes and peers through the glass. The office is modest, just a desk with an elderly-looking computer, a handful of mismatched chairs and a coffee table that looks as if it’s seen better days creating a waiting area. There’s also a small sideboard with a battered coffee set-up pushed against the far wall, and stacks of beat magazines litter every open surface. As expected, the walls sport tons of posters, brochures, and catchy advertisements for custom work. Nearly all of them feature the Gracela. </p><p>Hopping down off of the stone step, Castiel sighs and scratches his chin. <em> What to do, what to do? </em> While he’s already decided that Zachariah’s plan isn’t even remotely on the table any longer, Castiel still needs to figure out how to get around the issue of Dean using their trademark. It’s not that <em> he </em>minds, per se—quite the opposite, Castiel’s warmed to see the Gracela bringing business to someone so clearly hardworking and good-hearted as Dean—but ignoring trademark infringement is a slippery slope that can’t be done selectively. If he lets Dean off the hook, it could wind up biting Castiel in the ass later, when someone he’s less sympathetic towards tries to do it.</p><p>At the very least, he needs to speak with the man. Perhaps that will inspire an outside-the-box solution. </p><p>With no one at the desk, it seems likely at this point that Dean or whoever has been left in charge in his absence is in the garage, working. Castiel makes his way there, following the sounds of “Whole Lotta Love” and the smell of fresh paint. There’s something beneath that, something vaguely enticing that Castiel can’t quite put his finger on, calling his name. Unfortunately, the paint fumes and mix of other oil and car scents, plus the city layered over that make it impossible to really tell. </p><p><em> It’s probably nothing, </em> Castiel thinks, though it doesn’t escape his notice that this isn’t the first or even second time he’s felt slightly <em> off </em> since Dean Winchester’s name came across his desk. <em> But it’s probably nothing.  </em></p><p>Before entering the garage, Castiel stops and sniffs himself, just to be polite. He hasn’t had a particularly stressful day (even Zachariah’s obnoxious visit was not overly unusual or upsetting), so he’s fairly certain he doesn’t outright stink. Of course, it’s not as if people can smell their own pheromones, at least not <em> well </em> or outside of scent bonding. Castiel’s been told by the few intimate partners he’s had that he smells like cinnamon, hints of woodsmoke, and with minor notes of honey and sunshine. To this day, the concept of that baffles Castiel—he’s yet to be successful in convincing anyone to describe to him accurately what <em> sunshine </em>smells like, but he’s heard the descriptor more than once.</p><p>“The perfect summer day in the park,” is the closest anyone’s come, and that was Claire, who Castiel can’t be sure wasn’t just being nice. Still, no one’s outright complained either, so it can’t be terrible, whatever it is. Regardless, he knows the cinnamon-campfire thing he has going on turns burnt and bitter when he’s upset, and while Castiel can think of far more offensive things, he’d rather not assault Dean Winchester’s nose with something gross. </p><p>There aren’t any blockers in his new car, though, and Castiel forgot to even reapply deodorant before he left the office. Well, he’ll just stand upwind, on the off-chance that he’s stinky. That’s the polite thing for a strange alpha to do in an omega’s company, and Castiel wants to ensure he gets off on the right foot, here. As he steps towards the garage, licking his finger and sticking it into the air to test the wind, it suddenly strikes Castiel that if anyone should be worried here—it’s<em> Dean.  </em></p><p><em> Why </em> on earth does <em> he </em>even care what Dean Winchester thinks?</p><p>The mural on the other side of the street catches his eye again.</p><p><em> The man simply seems nice, </em> Castiel tells himself. <em> It’s nothing more than that.  </em></p><p>Inside Winchester Custom Cars’ active workspace, there are two empty bays plus a 2018 Gracela Model 3 sitting on a lift that hasn’t been raised. She’s half-painted, the left side where Castiel is standing at the back still factory-white, with the assorted minor nicks and scratches that come with normal road-wear and tear. On her right, whoever is painting has transformed the exterior into a very prismatic shade of emerald green that shines and shimmers even in the shadowed garage. Again, impressive, even with the way the windows are taped and draped over to protect the glass from the spray. </p><p>Standing by the Gracela’s front right headlight is a person covered head-to-toe in gear. A long-sleeved mechanic’s jumpsuit that is splattered with all sorts of various paints, plus a hood, a respirator mask, and a face shield that prevents Castiel from so much as identifying even a single physical feature. Well, beyond the fact that they’re tall, with maybe an inch or two on him, and with an <em> extremely </em>muscular physique—that much Castiel can’t unsee. </p><p>Unprofessional as it is, Castiel can’t help but let his eyes roam along the curve of the person’s biceps—those, combined with the flatter planes of their chest along with their height, strongly suggest that it’s a man under there. Probably not an omega, with that stature and build, which is disappointing. Castiel was really hoping to encounter Dean today. Perhaps he’s in the back. It’s entirely distracting, though—the way the masked painter moves, the sultry way they sway their hips and bop their head along to the beat—Castiel’s entranced. There’s just something about—</p><p>“Oh, hey! Just give me one second!” The mystery person calls out over the sound of the air compressor powering his paint sprayer <em> and </em> the pounding music. A gloved hand waves amiably at Castiel, who nods easily and raises his own hand in return. Sounds like a man, and with an <em> extremely </em> pleasant voice at that—which is a very odd thing to think, and Castiel awkwardly shoves the thought away. Not wanting to appear impatient or rude, he backs out onto the apron in front of the garage and stands there patiently, only stealing glances at the happy, dancing painter every <em> other </em>second he’s left waiting.  </p><p>After a couple of minutes, the compressor turns off, the volume of the music lowers, and the man pulls off his hood, shield, and mask. Despite the reddened lines decorating the man’s face from where the respirator was pressing into his skin, he is objectively <em> stunning. </em>Like something straight out of Castiel’s wildest fantasies, down to the unearthly forest green eyes and gorgeous, infectious grin. </p><p><em> Oh my, </em>Castiel thinks, swallowing heavily, which the man seems to catch, even with an entire car and the shadows of the garage between them. His smile widens as he makes his way around the half-painted vehicle, stopping just shy of the trunk and resting his hand casually on the roof. </p><p>“So,” he says amiably, as Castiel forcibly resists scenting the air to try and get a whiff of who this man is and what he smells like. “How did you find me?” </p><p>“You’re charming,” Castiel says bluntly, ignoring the question at first. “Which makes me wonder if you are, in fact, Dean Winchester.” It’s not the flirtation it probably sounds like, just a factual observation. An attitude like this would go hand-in-hand with everything Castiel’s seen so far, not to mention help explain how Dean has kept his business afloat. Castiel would buy just about anything from a face like that, whether he needed it or not. “I recently purchased a Gracela, and you were recommended to me. Eileen Leahy?” </p><p>Dean’s face lights up, and <em> oh, dear, </em> Castiel’s actually considering bucking his usual background check-nondisclosure-agreement combo that his personal assistant terminally insists on prior to him asking anyone out. Crowley will be annoyed, but Crowley is always annoyed and—<em>where was he? Ah, yes, Dean. </em>Castiel is quickly considering bagging this entire venture and just asking Dean out. </p><p>“Oh, yeah, Eileen’s my sister-in-law. Well, basically. She’s great, huh? Basic paint job? Something wild? Either way, I’m sure we can hook you up.” </p><p><em> But </em>that won’t solve his problem with Zachariah, and left without specific direction, the man is a loose cannon. A loose cannon that would probably enjoy nothing more than blasting a giant hole through Dean’s entire livelihood. No, Castiel needs to see this through, first. </p><p>...<em>Then </em>he can find out if Dean would be interested in dinner. Or skipping dinner, Castiel’s not entirely opposed to that either. </p><p>“It’s just—?” Dean’s gesturing around the corner of the garage bay, presumably asking where Castiel is parked, and so he nods and Dean nods back and it’s all slightly awkward. Castiel clears his throat and smooths down the front of his suit jacket, vowing not to be so obvious about his interest going forward. Perhaps he’s just creeping Dean out. </p><p>That theory goes out the window as they walk towards the Gracela, Castiel keeping a respectful distance behind the way polite alphas alone with omegas should do. Dean moves quickly, but he also goes out of his way to glance over his shoulder and wink when he finds Castiel staring back. Butterflies flutter in Castiel’s chest and his inner alpha preens—that certainly doesn’t <em> look </em>like disgust. He works to keep his cool, though. </p><p>
  <em> Business first, pleasure later. </em>
</p><p>It’s been longer than Castiel cares to admit since he’s been interested enough to pursue someone, never mind felt <em> this </em> attracted to any person at first sight. That’s just not really Castiel’s bag. Work keeps him busy enough, prescription suppressants keep his ruts at bay, and Claire is his top priority for when he does have free time. One night stands serve their purpose, but Castiel’s never especially <em> enjoyed </em>them, necessarily.</p><p>Somehow, he feels as if he would enjoy and be grateful for <em> whatever </em>Dean might be interested in sharing with him, which is yet again, a very strange thing to think. </p><p>Not wanting to blow his chance, Castiel pays close attention to the wind, not wanting to offend or overwhelm Dean with what are <em> surely </em>interested pheromones coming off of him now, but there’s no worry there—the air is dead still. So long as he remains a few yards back, he shouldn’t give himself away. </p><p>Though admittedly, Dean doesn’t look bothered in the least, ducking down to peer into the Gracela’s tinted windows and running a reverent hand over her curves. “Just love these things,” he says softly, which makes Castiel smile. “Real beauties, even if they are full of crazy technology. S’good technology, you know? So I can deal with the lack of a tape deck, I guess.” He laughs. “Sorry,” he apologizes, flushing a little and looking up at Castiel through his lashes. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and leans into the side of the car seductively, clearly flirting.</p><p>It’s a rare thing for Castiel to be struck dumb. After all he’s done and seen, not much surprises him, even less shocks him speechless. But Dean—an apparently unmated omega (if the lack of bite on his neck is anything to go by), living and running a business on his <em> own </em>in the middle of the poorest and most violent part of the city, who openly shows interest in a strange alpha without fear—he’s a rather enticing exception to that rule. </p><p>“What’s the matter, Alpha?” Dean taunts. “You act like you’ve never seen an omega off their leash before.” Dean doesn’t wait for a reply, pulling a pen from his breast pocket and tapping it against his lips as he continues circling the car, looking at each side carefully. He’s <em> truly </em>unafraid to draw interest to his mouth, and Castiel’s only too happy to let his gaze follow. “So, base price is two grand for single-color, bumper to bumper, but I have all kinds of blending and upgrade options if that’s what you’re interested in. Then you got glitter or holo finishes, wraps—might be easier if you just… tell me what you’re looking for.” </p><p>Castiel opens his mouth to reply, but Dean cuts him off before he can. Spinning on his heel, Dean turns to face him, only to lean back against the hood of Castiel’s car and cross his arms over his chest, cocking his head thoughtfully. “<em>Or </em>you could just be honest with me,” he suggests, tone belying nothing. “You know, instead of leading a guy on.”</p><p>Floundering, Castiel tries his best to look innocent, which essentially amounts to blinking a lot and glancing around wildly for either an excuse or an escape. “I’m sure that I don’t—”</p><p>“Save it,” Dean replies, but he doesn’t sound very angry, more amused than anything else. “Dude, you’re really bad at this undercover thing.” When Castiel doesn’t offer an explanation or anything else at all up, Dean sighs and gestures towards the car. “Buddy, I work with Gracelas every day. This thing is… <em> not </em>your average car. First of all, the tech setup in the console is something I’ve never seen before. And if I pop that hood, I bet I’m gonna see an X/S hybrid, am I wrong?” </p><p>Again, Castiel doesn’t answer, but he assumes his expression is turning increasingly guilty.</p><p>Fortunately, Dean just tips his head back and laughs a little. “So, what? You part of Novak Corp? You from Legal? Drew the short stick to come down here and check me out in person before slapping a cease and desist order on this place? Hot tip, gorgeous—alphas that look and dress like you don’t hang out around these parts.”  </p><p>“It’s my outfit?” Castiel wonders, looking down so that Dean doesn’t see the blush stain his face from the compliment. <em> Gorgeous. God, </em>Castiel is easy, and he doesn’t even care. </p><p>“I mean, yeah, for starters. Plus the shoes, the name-drop, the custom version of the car, the haircut—buddy, even your stubble looks like it’s tailor-made for your face. That’s a compliment, by the way,” Dean caveats. The crinkly lines at the sides of his eyes say that he’s telling the truth, even if he is needling Castiel a little in the process. Castiel likes him all the more for it. “You’re clearly loaded. You could pay a guy like me to come to your house in the Hills and never set foot in this part of town.”</p><p>“I didn’t think of that,” Castiel mutters, but he has to admit, Dean has a point. Perhaps that would have been a more realistic cover. “I apologize for misleading you… I can pay you for your time, I never meant to detract from your work.” </p><p>“Nah,” Dean replies easily, waving his hand dismissively before folding it across his chest again and staring off down the street. He chews his thumbnail and shrugs. “No worries. Honestly, I was kinda waiting for this to happen. Eileen’s great and all, but I told her this wouldn’t last. She had this whole idea where she thought if she could prove to you guys I was a good worker, a moneymaker, maybe you’d bring me on board, let me go legit.” Dean ducks his head, shakes it, and shrugs again. “I told her it wouldn’t happen. Good things don’t happen to guys like me.” He sniffs like he doesn’t care, but Castiel can tell that he does, very much. “So give it to me straight, Mr. Big Shot, what am I looking at? They gonna shut me down completely or can I get away with just taking the Gracela name off my shit?” </p><p>When Castiel pauses for a moment, considering Dean with open interest before replying, Dean takes it the wrong way.</p><p>“Oh, damn. That bad? Shit.” Dean drags a hand over his mouth. “Are you anybody over there? Just a lawyer like my brother or do you got any sway? What I’m asking is, in case it’s not clear—if I get on my knees and beg, would that be like, useful or pointless?” While Dean rambles, his voice still retains the half-sarcastic, half-desperate joking tone he’s had all along, but Castiel sees right through it. If all the little details around Dean’s place hadn’t given him away, this would do it—this shop clearly means everything to him.</p><p>“You could say that I’m someone,” Castiel says carefully. He looks down for a moment and then lifts his head and meets Dean’s gaze head-on. It’s not meant to be an alpha-challenge, but Dean visibly struggles not to react and drop his eyes submissively. Wincing, Castiel glances away before he can and then looks back, which has Dean’s eyes widening in shocked surprise. </p><p>“Whoa,” he says. “Haven’t seen an alpha do that in—”</p><p>“I’m Castiel Novak,” Castiel interrupts, holding out his hand but leaving it up to Dean to close the distance between them. </p><p>It’s Dean’s turn to be speechless, his jaw dropping open a little as he stares, apparently forgetting himself completely. That only lasts a minute, and then he’s straightening up, wiping his still-gloved hands nervously on his jumpsuit. “Oh shit,” he mutters, when he realizes. “I mean—I’m sorry, sir, I—” Flustered, Dean struggles to yank his gloves off, but they’re attached to his sleeves and his anxiety over Castiel’s big reveal has his hands visibly trembling. </p><p>Out of pure frustration, Dean curses again quietly and then rips the zipper of his jumpsuit down so he can wiggle out of the top. Underneath, he’s wearing only a ratty, oil-stained white tee, and his skin is sweating and shiny. Castiel’s mouth goes bone-dry. As the jumpsuit falls free and folds down at Dean’s hips, the wind, as if in league with some force out to kill Castiel where he stands, swirls to life around them. </p><p>If Castiel believed in things like magic and fate and serendipity, he <em> might </em>be inclined to think one or more of them was involved here, but those things are the stuff of fairytales, beautiful lies for children to put their faith in. </p><p>He’s always privately thought the same about True Mates, too. Mostly a myth, a fantastical tall tale that Hollywood leans on to make sappy movies and that unsavory mated alphas use to justify cheating on their spouses. Romantic? No. Realistic? Yes. Sure, Castiel knows that <em> technically </em> the phenomenon is real—many, <em> many </em> years ago he witnessed two of his employees meet and discover their bond for the first time right there in his office. And then he watched them attempt to consummate it right there in his office. That was <em> less </em>romantic. </p><p>But he’s always—again, privately—thought the concept was a bit of an exaggeration. After all, how could one <em> know </em>just from a whiff that someone else was their perfectly compatible mate? It seems like the majority of people claiming to experience finding theirs must be exaggerating, over-dramatizing for effect (and for time off to complete the mating bond, because who doesn’t want government-funded PTO?!). That’s another thing that squicks Castiel out too, and has always made him question—there’s clearly a benefit to the federal government encouraging swift matings. “True Mates” just seems like a suspiciously convenient way to convince omegas that they’re meant to be tied to an alpha. </p><p>Yes, all of that is very logical; it all makes perfect, rational sense. </p><p>What Castiel feels when the breeze hits his nose, carrying Dean’s sweat-amplified scent laced through it, is <em> nothing </em> like any of that. The thing is, for all of Castiel’s <em> logical </em> deductions, his <em> sensible, </em> reasonable thoughts—he’s never been able to fully evict the childishly hopeful rumblings in the <em> tiniest </em>corner of his mind. The part of him that harbors secret romantic notions of finding his own True Mate—skilled in negotiation as he is, Castiel’s never been able to put that part of his brain entirely out of business. </p><p><em> Maybe </em> it’s because in his quietest, most secret thoughts, under the dark cover of the night, alone in his too-big suite on the twenty-first floor, Castiel dreams. It’s so unlikely with the life he lives that he’d ever be able to form a genuine connection with a stranger, to build something lasting from scratch. But if someone was <em> meant </em> to be his—then the foundation would be laid, wouldn't it? There would be a <em> reason </em>to try, to hope for some form of a happy ending, despite everything Castiel has working against him.</p><p>Laying on his twenty-thousand-dollar (and still extraordinarily empty) mattress, with Netflix playing in the background, Castiel has inserted himself into each and every one of those Hollywood movie scenarios. <em> Someday</em>, he imagined, he would find his True Mate, perhaps in a park, or at a sidewalk cafe. They’d both stop dead in their tracks as their scents connected and reached each others noses. Their eyes would tear up as realization struck, and then they’d go running into each other’s arms, crashing together and kissing like the world was ending. All that would be left was for Castiel to whisk his omega away and to live happily ever after. </p><p>
  <em> What dreams may come.  </em>
</p><p>On Castiel’s end, at least, that is<em> sort of </em> how the next few moments go. </p><p>Scenting Dean for the first time is an almost out-of-body experience. There are notes of his normal scent—bright, crisp apples and buttery pastry, tangy leather, and smooth, aged whiskey. Castiel inhales and lets his eyes flutter closed; from the jump, he and Dean are compatible; their scents compliment each other beautifully. Castiel relishes the <em> sensation—</em>and it is a sensation, much more so than any omega he’s ever scented before. Certain omegas have made him <em> feel </em> something—arousal, interest, affection—just from their smell, but nothing nearly as strong as <em> this. </em>As Castiel becomes used to Dean’s scent, the other layers punch him swiftly in the gut as they settle and make themselves known.</p><p><em> Home. Mate. Need. Mate. Protect. Mate. </em> Words, feelings, all messed up in a jumble that overwhelms Castiel and has him almost doubling over, gasping for breath. One quick glance up tells him that Dean is no better off. He looks almost panicked, smells terrified, and yet he’s stepping closer to Castiel, scenting the air like he can’t be <em> sure, </em>like he doesn’t know what the hell else to do. Castiel knows the feeling. </p><p>His body pleads for him to dash forward, to take Dean in his arms, to kiss him and hold him and bite him and never let him out of his sight so long as they both shall live. The very brief time he’s known Dean, however, combined with the conflicting emotions on Dean’s face now, has Castiel fighting to hold himself at bay.</p><p><em> You’re a man, </em> he scolds himself. <em> You’re not an animal. You are not a slave to base urges, no matter how strong they may be.  </em></p><p>Clenching his hands at his sides, Castiel waits for Dean to come to him. “Don’t touch me,” Dean snaps sharply, standing only an arm’s length away, and Castiel swiftly retracts the hand he didn’t realize he had stretched out, reaching for his mate.</p><p><em> Not your mate, </em> he corrects himself internally. <em> Dean. Dean is his own man, he doesn’t belong to anyone. </em>Despite his thoughts, Castiel’s every screaming sense says otherwise. </p><p>It takes every ounce of strength Castiel never knew he possessed and then some to remain stock-still when Dean crosses the boundary into his personal space. He doesn’t touch, but he does lean in close, dipping his face down to Castiel’s neck and towards his scent gland. Only too happy to oblige, to give Dean whatever he needs, Castiel tips his chin up, exposing his throat. It’s potentially emasculating, a bit of a submissive move for an alpha, but Dean’s sharp intake of breath says it was the right thing to do. </p><p>As the tip of Dean’s nose only <em> just </em>brushes against the sensitive expanse of said throat, Castiel’s breath comes short and he closes his eyes, willing himself to be calm. He swallows hard and wonders if Dean can see it. </p><p>Nothing happens, though. Once Dean’s sucked in his share of deep breaths off of Castiel’s skin, he retreats almost immediately. This time, he puts the car between himself and Castiel, which Castiel takes note to just as soon as he opens his eyes. It hurts somewhere deep in his chest to see, and the disconnect of being hurt by a man he doesn’t even know sits terribly with Castiel.</p><p>“Alright,” he says, “I can take a hint. But Dean, you are in no danger with me.” </p><p>Dean snorts. “Damn right,” he replies, flexing the muscles of his biceps without uncrossing his arms and, yes, that’s fair. </p><p>Licking his lips, Castiel tries again. “Won’t you give me a chance?” he asks quietly, and with that, Dean seems to soften. He glances towards the shop and then back at Castiel, and chews his lip. “Don’t you feel—”</p><p><em> That—</em>those three little words—turn out to be the wrong thing to say. Whatever openness might have returned to Dean’s face, it closes off again just as quickly. </p><p>“I don’t feel anything for you,” Dean growls, taking off hot-footed for the garage in a move that clearly instructs Castiel not to follow. </p><p>“Dean, please,” Castiel calls after him, but Dean doesn’t so much as glance back over his shoulder, not like earlier. Castiel’s chest hurts even more to see him go, and he fights against his every alpha and human instinct not to chase after him. As he stands there, gawking like an idiot, the doors to Dean’s garage go down in rapid succession, one right after the other. “Message received,” Castiel murmurs quietly to himself, dejected. </p><p>He turns to leave and then thinks better of it, reaching into his pocket for a business card and retrieving the pen Dean let drop to the ground. On the back of the card, Castiel carefully prints his personal contact info before sliding it through the mail slot in the shop’s front door. With a reluctant last look, Castiel gets back into his vehicle and throws it in reverse. As he backs away, he could <em>swear </em>the curtains on the second floor rustle; can almost <em> feel </em>the presence of someone he’s somehow bizarrely connected to watching, just out of sight. </p><p>Before his alpha instincts get the best of him, Castiel puts the pedal to the floor and takes off. He may not know why Dean flipped from hot to cold so quickly, may not understand his fierce dismissal of whatever is <em> clearly </em> between them, may not know how to go about changing Dean’s mind at all. In fact, Castiel has no idea if there <em> is </em> any fixing this, if he has any shot in hell at convincing Dean to <em> see </em>him again, never mind give him a chance to try—but he does know where to start. </p><p>“Siri, call my office,” Castiel instructs, and his phone dials obediently. </p><p>“Castiel Novak’s office,” Becky answers.</p><p>“Becky, it’s me,” Castiel says evenly, his tone betraying none of the inner turmoil he’s currently experiencing. “I will be back in the office in approximately half an hour. I would like Sam Winchester from Legal, Eileen, Zachariah, and someone from Mergers and Acquisitions waiting in my conference room when I arrive. Make that happen?” </p><p>“Right away, Mr. Novak.” </p><p>When Castiel hangs up the phone, he flexes his hands on the steering wheel, newly determined. He thinks about the way he felt when Dean’s scent hit him for the first time and shivers. Castiel <em> wants </em>more than anything to feel like that again, to get to know the proud, headstrong omega—to explore what they could be to each other and to give Dean what he deserves. And that’s exactly where he’ll start—by giving Dean what he deserves.</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>omg i wonder what's going to happen?!?! 😆</p><p>You can always follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/caslostwings">Twitter</a> or <a href="https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> for writing updates and sneak previews, if you like! </p><p>If you're enjoying this fic, if you could share it or give it a <a href="https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/post/623487265756282880/down-to-you-by-castielslostwings">reblog</a>, that would be awesome. Thank you guys for all of your support!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hope in Ruin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Castiel breaks the news to Claire and Dean ponders the cost of freedom.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really meant to get back into the DeanCas action this chapter, but it was too rushed. I just felt we needed to see what's up in Dean's head and hear from Sam and Eileen a little first, and do a compare/contrast on Dean and Cas' lives, so. Sigh. Someday a fic will not get away from me. That day is not today.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So much for getting out of the office early, or taking the night off. By the time Castiel stumbles into his elevator, loosening his tie with a relieved groan, it’s well after ten p.m. His eyelids are heavy, struggling to stay open as the doors slide closed, leaving Castiel’s darkened office and the long-empty executive suite and reception area blessedly behind. </p><p><em> Thirty-six years old and late for bed at ten in the evening, </em> Castiel muses inwardly, letting his burning eyes rest for a long moment while the elevator descends rapidly to the twenty-first floor. The control panel beeps when it comes to a stop, prompting Castiel to place his hand on the sensor to be scanned. He does so without opening his lids, fumbling for a moment before his palm finds the pane of smooth, tempered glass. Not two seconds later, the doors are sliding open and Castiel’s <em> very </em> smart apartment suite is welcoming him home. </p><p>He yawns and stretches as he shuffles forward, genuinely considering kicking his shoes off and just leaving them in the foyer like an animal. Someone would get them, undoubtedly—his butler, or maybe his maid. More likely, it would be his personal assistant Rowena, when she inevitably shows up unsummoned to tell him everything he’s doing wrong with his life. Despite the enjoyment he gets imagining the glamorous Rowena picking up his shoes and returning them to his closet, Castiel resists. </p><p>It’s beginning to feel like all he does anymore—resist. </p><p>The small room off of the elevator is plushly decorated, lighting up with Castiel’s presence and going dim just as soon as his fingerprint admits him to the main apartment and the door closes behind him. </p><p>“Claire?” Castiel calls out, glancing around the airy space. He’d texted with his niece a bit earlier, warning her that he wouldn’t be down until late. As it turned out, Claire had plans to hang out with friends tonight, anyway. She should be back by now, though. She’d told him as much. “Claire?” </p><p>The leather officially rubbing painfully at his heels, Castiel caves and toes out of his shoes, leaving them in the middle of what amounts to his living room. When he renovated this floor, he was clear with the architect that he wanted as much bright light and openness as possible. The end result was to put the two-bedroom suites at opposing corners of the building, allowing each ample access to the exterior walls for natural light, while not taking any away from the common spaces. </p><p>Currently, Castiel’s standing between the open kitchen-slash-dining area and what Claire has dubbed “the relaxation zone.” The color scheme stays the same as the room flow from left to right, all tans and greys, neutral and classy but homey at the same time. Stone accents that Castiel had to fight for—his decorator didn’t feel they were expensive-looking enough, which Castiel didn’t understand at all. He <em> likes </em>earth tones and textures, likes feeling grounded by his decor, likes his home to feel welcoming and touchable. </p><p>Who wants to live in a hands-off museum? Not him. Definitely not Claire.</p><p>As such, Castiel knows his home is less impressive than it could be, but he’s fine with that. Sure, the lighting, the thermostat, the security systems are all smart and both on timers/motion activation or controllable from his phone, but any Average Joe can do that. For God’s sake, they sell all of those things at Best Buy. Costly, certainly, but that doesn’t extend past the technology. Everything else Castiel owns is closer to standard home decor than luxury for luxury’s sake. </p><p>For example, the kitchen is state-of-the-art but accessible, the dining area is chic but usable, and the main living space on the other side of the giant room is comfortable yet attractive. In the middle sits a sprawling, three-sided rectangular couch and an enormous stone and glass coffee table in the center. The worst part, in Castiel’s opinion, is the audacious two-hundred-or-so inch TV set on the wall above a long, modern gas fireplace. Castiel <em> knows </em> the thing is obnoxious, prefers the sixty-inch in his room for when he <em> does </em> watch TV, but again, <em> Claire.  </em></p><p>Let it never be said that he hasn’t tried to give his niece the world and then some, no matter how much it stresses him out. But that’s what the fully-stocked bar that sprawls to the right of the TV is for. </p><p>The entire wall opposite the TV, the bar, and the entryway is glass, from one end of the building to the other, save for the steel support beams that run straight up. After all, they’re still on the twenty-first story of a skyscraper; only so much can be hidden if one does not wish for the entire space to collapse in on itself. The glass wall actually continues part of the way down the sides of the building as well, up to where the bedroom suites jut out and make their presence known. </p><p>There are doors in the middle of the far wall of glass, as well as creatively hidden windows that can be opened for ventilation. Although, right now, everything is currently closed up, suggesting that Claire is not outside, and perhaps not even home. Castiel checks anyway, peering curiously through the doors and scanning the covered portico that is the entryway to his favorite place in the building. </p><p>Out here, Castiel’s architect was careful to construct both a roof and creatively placed walls that effectively buffer the wind to create the most tranquil and inviting atmosphere possible. Copious skylights in the ceiling ensure that the natural light penetrates, so that protection from the elements doesn't result in feeling like one is cooped up inside, while still protecting their privacy. </p><p>The result is an extravagant rooftop oasis, the likes of which Castiel has never seen replicated anywhere else. While he doesn’t often take boastful pride in the things his wealth allows for him to enjoy, this place is an exception. It’s Castiel’s escape; his means of achieving peace and solace in a fast-paced world that allows him little to none. </p><p>Outside the doors and to the left, plush, comfortable seating frames a dramatic stone fireplace extending from floor to ceiling at the far end of the portico. There’s a couple of hammocks strung from the Romanesque support columns, several swinging seats, and multiple flat-screen TVs mounted and facing different directions. To the right, there’s an expansive fully-equipped kitchen with an oversized-sized fridge and freezer, and another well-stocked bar. It is, as Claire says, “the ultimate place for a rager.” For Castiel, though, it’s simply a break from reality.</p><p>In between those two sections, directly outside the access doors, sits a long, polished wooden dining table with matching chairs. Weather and schedule-permitting, Castiel takes as many of his meals out here as possible, and Claire joins him more often than not. The table is far too big for just the two of them, but Castiel barely notices anymore. It’s just like everything else in his life—too big, too elaborate for only him, and yet, he (and Claire) are all he has. </p><p>Those parts of his little Eden aren’t even his favorites though. Nor, ironically, is the expensive custom pool and hot tub beyond. Not that those things aren’t almost sinfully wonderful—the glass-edged rooftop allows for some truly unreal views of Los Angeles while soaking in the bubbles, and Castiel enjoys taking advantage of working out his frustrations via swimming laps frequently. No, the reason Castiel loves the roof so much lies beyond all of that, in the carefully hedged garden tucked over on the other side of the pool. </p><p>Without rounding the hedges and entering through the nearly-hidden breach between them, the garden’s secrets aren’t visible from the rest of the roof. Once he does, though, it’s like a whole different world, a secret heaven of sorts. Enough that Castiel can close his eyes and imagine he isn’t in Los Angeles at all, that he’s been dropped in the middle of a forest or a field somewhere, just for a few minutes. Claire joking calls it his “secret garden,” which is a reference Castiel did <em> not </em>get until she showed him the movie. </p><p><em> Mocking or not, </em> he’s decided, <em> she isn’t wrong. </em></p><p>There’s real grass covering the floor of the garden. There are real trees—small ones, but they count—flowers, and even a fresh fruit, vegetable, and herb garden. The pièce de resistance, though, is the small apiary Castiel keeps at the far end. Hey, if he’s going to have a garden, it couldn’t survive all the way up in the air without some bringing bees along too. Bonus, Castiel gets fresh honey and honeycomb to eat. Plus, as he has since discovered, those things make fantastic Christmas presents—ones that recipients tend to think are extremely original and unexpected. Or perhaps his people just don’t think much of Castiel’s ability to be creative and thoughtful.</p><p>Either way, many of his off-hours are spent out there, tending carefully to his plants or just sitting on the nondescript stone bench, enjoying the sun and watching the bees. </p><p>Regretfully, Castiel doesn’t feel up to heading out to his garden tonight. The pool water glimmers in the low light of the lanterns decorating the ceiling that come on automatically, and he briefly considers a swim, but again comes down on the side of exhaustion. Claire isn’t out there, anyway. If she was, even if she were hiding in the garden, the fairy lights she has strung up all over the roof would be on, too. They’re not exactly billionaire-aesthetic deco, but they’re her touch, and as such, that means Castiel loves them. </p><p>Rubbing at the middle of his chest, the sore little ache that’s been gnawing away at him ever since he left Dean’s shop, Castiel sighs resignedly and turns to head over to the kitchen. He figures Claire is still out with her friends, and so is wholly unprepared to turn around and come face-to-face with her frowning one. She’s standing <em> way </em>too close, completely invading his personal space, which is something Castiel himself has been accused of more than once. He supposes stranger things run in families, but that doesn’t stop him from yelping in surprise. </p><p>“Claire! Why didn’t you answer me when I called for you?” </p><p>Completely ignoring his question, Claire flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder and narrows her charcoal-rimmed eyes in suspicion. “What’s up with you?” she asks, leaning closer to sniff him, which Castiel deftly ducks away from under the pretense of bolting for the kitchen.</p><p>“Nothing, I’m just hungry,” he lies, padding over to the fridge and extracting the tupperware full of leftovers that his chef, Benny, packed up when he didn’t make it down for dinner. Not an uncommon routine for them in the least. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” That, at least, is the truth—Benny made them both parfaits this morning, and Castiel regretted not opting for eggs or something with a bit more substance long before noon. “What about you? Did you have fun with your friends?”</p><p>“Oh, no,” Claire replies, waggling a finger at him in accusation. She takes a seat across from where he’s standing at the island, digging into Benny’s gumbo without so much as heating it first. “What am I, new? Something’s up with you. C’mon, Uncle Cas. You look…” Again, Claire’s eyes scour him critically, but she clearly comes up blank. “And you won’t let me smell you. Spill, or I’m coming over there.” </p><p>“Fine,” Castiel says with a groan, feeling like <em> he </em> is the teenager in this tête-a-tête and not enjoying it one bit. He drops his spoon and stares dejectedly down at the brown goop, which is surprisingly (or not, Benny is quite amazing) delicious, even cold. Castiel wishes he could enjoy it, but between Claire’s scrutiny and the weird ache in his chest, food just isn’t overly appetizing at the moment. “Something <em> did </em>happen today,” he says carefully. </p><p>“Something work-related?” Claire questions, reaching across the counter to snag Castiel’s bowl and steal a big bite for herself.</p><p>“Didn’t you eat earlier?”</p><p>“Yeah, what of it? And don’t change the subject.” </p><p>Castiel sighs and wavers. “Claire, I don’t...I have no idea if there’s even anything to say just yet. I’d rather take some time and sort it out myself, before…” He trails off, petulantly reaching out to grab his food back, just on the principle of the thing. “Give it.” </p><p>He really should have known. Claire lets him take the bowl, but she catches his wrist before he can pull it away, grinning smugly as she yanks him in over the counter and scents him deeply. “Holy—”</p><p>“Shit,” Castiel finishes for her, grimacing and rubbing a hand over his face. “Claire, don’t—”</p><p>“Your <em> True Mate? </em> Are you fucking kidding me? And you’re acting like it’s—what, no big deal? You weren’t even going to <em> tell </em>me?” Claire’s countenance has gone from amused to visibly livid, and Castiel doesn’t need to yank her across the counter to smell her fury. Worse than that, the steadily-growing note of hurt and sadness brewing underneath it. Claire’s usual lemon-bar tang, sweeter when she’s happy but often sour-edged like her teen-angst attitude, turns positively sharp and bitter. Castiel can almost feel it in the back of his throat, and it’s wholly unpleasant.</p><p>“He doesn’t even <em> like </em>me, Claire—you’re overreacting.” </p><p>“Uh-huh,” Claire replies shortly, nodding in a patronizing way as she hops off of her stool. She claps her hands together as she backs towards her suite. “Well, let me be the first to offer my deepest congrats. I hope you two are <em> very </em> happy together and that you have lots of little alphas that can do whatever it is you think I can’t. You must be so fuckin’ psyched to have a shot at <em> real </em> kids and a <em> real </em> family and a <em> real </em>heir for stupid Novak Corp. Not that I ever wanted it, anyway.” </p><p>“Claire,” Castiel tries, rounding the counter and reaching out, but Claire just stumbles away faster. “Claire, <em> you </em>are my real family, please don’t be like this.” As Castiel watches helplessly, she seems to think better of heading for her room and just grabs her jacket off of a hook outside her door before booking it towards the foyer and the elevator. </p><p>“If you need me, I’ll be in Bel-Air with Nana and Pop.” </p><p>Throwing his hands up in the air, Castiel lets her go, watching with great sadness as the door slams shut behind her. He could follow, of course he could. She’s probably just standing on the other side of the door, waiting for the elevator. In fact, on the off chance she’s not, Castiel could disable the elevator completely, shut down the garage access and leave Claire sitting in the dark down there if he <em> wanted </em>to. </p><p>But Claire is not just a teenager, she’s essentially an adult. She’s going to UCLA in the fall, and if she wants to handle her feelings by storming off, well, Castiel isn’t going to stop her. She has the right to her raging hormones and these extreme overreactions, as much as any teen. Much as they may hurt his feelings, all Castiel can really do is discuss that with her when she’s feeling less volatile. Anyway, if this is anything like every other fight they’ve had, Claire will show back up here in a day or two acting like nothing happened. If she doesn’t, Castiel will deal with it then—after she’s had some time to cool off, and maybe even when he has something of substance to add to the conversation regarding Dean.</p><p>One can dream. </p><p>Actually, dreaming sounds entirely enticing to Castiel right about now. He trudges across the hardwood floor, Benny’s gumbo abandoned and forgotten on the counter. On his way to his room, Castiel pulls off his tie and unbuttons his shirt. He slams the door to his suite just because he can, even though there’s no one here to chastise him for being childish or to hold him while his eyes leak out all of his repressed emotions about how goddamn <em> shitty </em>this day really was. </p><p>Without bothering to turn on the lights or even locate pajamas, Castiel collapses down onto his bed, leaving his clothing in a trail behind him. The only thing he bothers to do is to plug in his phone, since being Castiel Novak means he’s never <em> actually </em>off the clock. </p><p>In the heavy dark, Castiel stares upward, rubbing absently at the center of his sore chest and wondering what the hell happened to Dean to make him react like the way that he did. <em> Did someone hurt him? </em>Even the most vague insinuation of such makes Castiel growl and bristle, the ludicrosity of doing so alone and at his own ceiling not lost on him. He doesn’t like anything about this. Not the way Dean’s scent hijacked his feelings and emotions, not the way this True Mates business brings out some creepy inner feral animal, and definitely not the way Dean’s rejection has cut him so deeply.</p><p>Castiel lets his arm drop out to his side, the chilly softness of his sheets not providing the same comfort they usually do. He sighs and rolls onto his side, morosely blinking at the shape of the unused pillow next to his on the bed. He feels pathetic, and if there is <em> one </em> thing Castiel Novak is <em> not, </em>it’s pathetic. </p><p>As a last ditch effort to regain control of his emotions, Castiel silently runs through his plan for tomorrow. The puzzle pieces he spent all night arranging into place so that he can <em> try </em>to convince Dean that he means well are really the only card he has to play. Somehow, Castiel doubts filling Dean’s office with flowers or sending him chocolates will do anything besides convince the omega that he made the right decision by shutting the door in Castiel’s face. Honestly, Castiel can’t say that those things would do much for him, either. </p><p>Business, though. Caring about what you’ve built and wanting to protect it—that’s something Castiel <em> knows</em>, something he understands, something he and Dean have in common. Perhaps it could be considered manipulative to lean on that in this case, but what Castiel has to give comes with no strings. Of course, he’s <em> hoping </em>the gesture will open a door, will make Dean soften towards him, but if not, well, he’ll be no worse off than today. </p><p>There’s really nothing to do now but to wait and see. </p><p>And to hope that this ache in his chest, the one that pulses whenever Dean’s face floats its way behind Castiel’s eyelids, eases on its own.</p><p>***</p><p>
  <em> Dean  </em>
</p><p>Sam shows up somewhere around nine in the evening, with Eileen trailing sympathetically behind him. Dean still hasn’t left his post, hovering at the edge of the upstairs window, just behind the curtains. The same place where he’s been sitting and chewing each and every one of his fingernails down as far as they’ll go, ever since <em> Castiel Novak </em>sped away down the street. </p><p>His chest aches. Reluctantly, as if acknowledging the pain’s existence will somehow validate and invite it to stay, Dean rubs at his sternum to no avail. Below him on the street, Sam knocks at the door of the darkened office (everything is dark—the office, the garage, his fuckin’ bedroom—because that’s what happens when the sun goes down and you ignore it, apparently). </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Dean dips his head just enough to yell, “It’s open, bitch,” through the ripped window screen. Irritated, he leans on the sash and as usual, it doesn’t move. The wooden frame is swollen, expanded far enough that it’s probably never moving again. Dean supposes he should just count his blessings that it got stuck open and not closed; at least there’s airflow in this shithole. </p><p>Mentally, he chastises himself—that’s no way to think about this place, not when he worked so hard to get it. Plus, the kitchen has A.C. now; Dean nicked a busted unit off the top of someone’s trash the other week and got it working with just a little bit of tinkering and a new can of freon. The kitchen tends to trap heat in a way that those shitty box fans don’t do much for, but with Dean’s repurposed find shoved into its sole window, he’s really living the high life now.</p><p>He should tell Sam and Eileen to get lost. Nicely, but also get the hell out. Dean’s in no mood for company and just the thought of explaining why feels exhausting. It’s only because he can smell the Roadhouse burgers one of them is carrying that he even admitted he was here, and despite outing himself, Dean’s not sold about stepping away from the window just yet. </p><p>Not that Dean could even say <em> why </em> he’s still standing here like an idiot. Like he even cares or wants fucking <em> Castiel Novak </em> to come back—hell no, of course he doesn’t want that. This—this pain in his chest, the lonely pull in the back of his mind suggesting he did the <em> way </em> wrong thing here—it’s all biological. It’s not <em> real. </em> It’s just some cosmic optical illusion that <em> scientifically </em> can be traced back to optimal bloodlines and diversity of the species all that shit, back when crap like <em> propagating the species </em>actually mattered.</p><p>Hell, these days, it’s more about keeping omegas in line than anything else. Clutching his curtain in a white-knuckled fist, Dean huffs a bitter laugh. <em> Makes fuckin’ sense, </em> he thinks. Someone like him, a guy who works with his hands and built himself a life from jack squat with the whole damn world against him, who paints social justice murals illegally on city walls <em> for fun </em> ending up with <em> Castiel Novak? </em> In <em> no </em> universe does that make sense. In <em> no </em> universe is that <em> not </em> some pre-ordained fuckery. In <em> no </em> universe could he have anything in common with or <em> ever </em>develop real feelings for the guy. </p><p>Pressing his forehead against the peeling trim surrounding the window, Dean groans softly and taps his face against the corner until it hurts more than the space around his heart. <em> Stupid, stupid, biology. Stupid stupid fate. </em> A billionaire as his True Mate, when Dean’s had to fight and scrap for his every shot and every cent. When all of his family and friends trade off giving each other their last dollars and the shirts off of each other’s backs just to keep afloat. <em> What a fuckin’ joke.  </em></p><p>It’s sick, is what it is, and Dean would rather take the pain, rather die than submit to any of it. He’s never going to be some rich alpha’s Stepford bitch, some kept boy-prized souvenir or whatever it is Castiel Novak <em> thinks </em>he can turn Dean into. If anything’s worth dying for, it’s this. His ability to be himself, to make his own bad choices, to be free. So what if it hurts? That just means he’s still his own man.</p><p>Keeping that righteous anger simmering requires Dean to persistently ignore the way that Castiel didn’t exactly seem as if he wanted any of that, though. To overlook how, when Dean asked, he kept his hands to himself. Or the way he did that whole submissive throat-baring thing, without Dean even having to ask. It’s possible Castiel was being manipulative—likely, even. Who ever heard of a billionaire who gave a shit about anyone else? </p><p>Some traitorous part of Dean isn’t completely buying that, though. Which he <em> hates, </em> but there it is. There’s the whole matter of the True Mates reveal—Dean could barely think straight when it hit him, never mind reason logically. The <em> feeling </em> overwhelming all of his senses—<em>Mate. Home. Mate. Safe—</em>and the intoxicating scent that was Castiel himself, <em> fuck. Sunshine, </em> Dean recalls now, not that he has a damn clue how to explain what <em> sunshine </em>smells like. </p><p>Not only that, but when Dean was a kid, his mother used to sometimes bake cinnamon in the oven when they were to have guests over, and he and Sam had been particularly ornery and stinking up the place. Castiel’s scent—that memory wasn’t just about the smell it evoked, it was the <em> emotion </em>Dean felt in that moment. It was like being back there, with the nostalgia of his childhood home and his mother’s comforting embrace, except—well, there was a weird sexual tension between him and Castiel layered in there too. </p><p>Maybe that’s weird—<em>it’s definitely weird—</em>but for Dean, it’s also heart-wrenching and difficult to walk away from.</p><p>From the lost and desperate look coloring Castiel’s face at the time, it sure seemed as if he was wading through similar territory. His reaction—that almost <em> had </em> to be the real Castiel. Dean certainly dropped his own guard for several seconds before he was able to collect himself and throw it back up. And if that’s the case, then <em> maybe </em> writing him off completely is unfair. After all, the guy didn’t seem to judge him, even before all that. The <em> worst </em> thing he did was imply that Dean couldn’t protect himself, though he didn’t <em> really </em>do that, either.</p><p>Honestly, before Dean got a whiff of Castiel’s pheromones and thrown for a whole-ass loop, he would have described the guy as… nerdy. Dorky. Weird, but in a <em> hot </em>way, intense and buff, just how Dean likes ‘em. In fact, pre-scenting, Dean would have let Castiel bend him over in heartbeat, preferably on the hood of that sweet car and—</p><p><em> Right. We hate him, </em> Dean reminds himself<em>.  </em></p><p>Lost in thought, Dean doesn’t hear Sam enter the room, though it’s impossible to ignore the smell of worry and—<em>excitement? What the fuck?—</em>that punches through the air and assaults Dean’s nostrils.</p><p>“Dean? What are you doing?” </p><p>It’s a fair question, Dean doesn’t even know at this point, just that it didn’t feel right to walk away from the spot where he’d last seen Castiel. <em> Ugh, </em>he hates this, wonders vaguely how long it might be until the effects of meeting him wear off and he can get back to normal. “Nothing, Sammy,” Dean mutters. </p><p>“Okay, well, <em> that’s </em> a lie,” Sam counters, flipping the lights on and making Dean flinch. Annoyed, he turns and faces his brother, figuring it’s probably best to get this thing over with so that he can get his burger. His stomach rumbles, angry at Dean for ignoring it for the better part of the day. That’s <em> definitely </em>not his usual.</p><p>Dean finds Sam standing next to his crappy wooden bed, wearing one of his most poorly-tailored work suits. The way it sags on Sam’s oversized frame body makes Dean smile. He’d helped his brother scrounge up a couple of doozies from their local Goodwill last spring, right after Sam graduated law school and took the job with Novak Corp. Between him and Eileen, they must be making enough now for Sam to easily afford something nicer, but it’s good to see that turning white-collar and working for Novak hasn’t changed him. </p><p>“Dean,” Sam repeats, crossing his arms impatiently right as Eileen sticks her head in the room, looking worried. Dean signs his hello, but Eileen just gives him that sappy, sympathetic look she’s been sporting since she got out of the car. Oddly, she smells excited too. “Dean, don’t freak out, I’ll explain—but we know about you and Castiel.” </p><p>All the color must drain from Dean’s face, and suddenly, there’s a ringing in his ears he can’t shake. From one minute to the next, Dean finds himself sitting in a chair in his tiny kitchen, blinking rapidly and doing his best to center himself while Sam fiddles with the A.C. dials. “Why the hell is it twenty degrees hotter in here?” he mutters. “Why are these the only damn chairs in your whole apartment?” </p><p>It’s clear he’s not looking for an answer, so Dean doesn’t give him one, just glares down at the table defensively, like the plastic red tablecloth he has draped over it is personally responsible for all of this. A glass of water appears in front of him, and to that at least, Dean looks up and signs, “Thank you,” to Eileen. </p><p>“You’re welcome, dumbass,” she signs back, before switching to speaking. “Now get ahold of yourself, we need to talk.” </p><p>Over the next half hour, Sam and Eileen fill Dean in on how <em> their </em> afternoon and evening have gone, with only the vaguest of details. Ultimately, it all amounts to one major thing: Dean has a meeting—a <em> business </em>meeting—with Castiel Novak tomorrow at two p.m. Supposedly, a message on his voicemail downstairs will confirm the same, not that Dean’s been down there to check. Which reminds him—</p><p>“I gotta close the gate to the lot,” he mumbles, moving to stand before Sam gets a hand on his arm and shoves him back down into his creaking chair. </p><p>“I got it before we came up,” he says simply, and despite Dean’s current irritation with him, he’s grateful. Sam’s a good egg, the kind of kid who doesn’t forget where he came from when he gets where he’s going. Too good for this part of town, <em> way </em>too good for the circles Castiel Novak runs in.</p><p>Anyway, much to Dean’s frustration and fury, <em> neither </em>Sam nor Eileen will tell Dean any specifics on what tomorrow’s meeting is about, only that if he cares about his shop, he needs to go. “That’s a load of horseshit and you know it,” Dean tells them, but all he gets are matching, ambivalent shrugs in response. “What’s wrong with you two?” he demands. “Did Castiel put something in your water? Replace you with sentient robots? No offense, but that sorta seems like something you guys would fall for.” </p><p>When Sam and Eileen just exchange knowing glances, Dean throws his hands in the air in frustration before heading to the fridge and grabbing a beer. Water is definitely <em> not </em>cutting it tonight. </p><p>“You know,” Sam says casually, and oh no—Dean knows that tone, the one that always precedes some piece of info Sam thinks is important but knows Dean won’t like. Dean sighs into the flickering yellow light of his rotting Frigidaire, rooting past the molding takeout to grab a Margiekugels. “You’ve really got Castiel all wrong.” </p><p>Spinning on his heel, the linoleum squeaking beneath his shoes, Dean points the neck of his beer at his brother accusatorily. “Don’t,” he says sharply, and Sam puts up both hands in resignation.</p><p>“I just know how you feel about True Mates,” he tries, but Dean shakes his head.</p><p>“No, nope. No, you don’t,” Dean says, popping the cap on the side of the table before sitting back down. “You don’t know shit about fuck. You and Eileen ain’t True Mates. What would you do if she came home one day and said that she found hers, that she was leaving you? You’d be all for it then?”</p><p>Taken aback, Sam just blinks at him for a moment. “I—I mean, Dean, that’s irrelevant. First of all, finding your True Mate in this day and age isn’t exactly common. And, well, Eileen and I, we—”</p><p>“We’d talk about it like adults,” Eileen finishes for him, reaching across the table to cover Sam’s hand with her own. “Poly is a thing, you know, Mr. Social Justice. And that’s an unfair question, Dean Winchester. You know it is. Even if it wasn’t, you’re dealing in ‘what if’s, and we’re talking about reality. Castiel <em> is </em>your True Mate.” </p><p>“I know you hate the idea,” Sam starts again, and this time Dean just slumps in his chair and pokes at the rim of his bottle with his finger. “After Dad—”</p><p>“The guy killed himself over it, Sam,” Dean says quietly, not looking up. “Mom died, and whatever was between them hurt <em> so </em> damn much he couldn’t go on without her. He <em> left </em> us, Sammy. Alone. In what realm of—<em>anything </em> is that okay? If that’s what being with your True Mate does to someone, I don’t want any part of it.” </p><p>There’s a heavy silence in the kitchen for a long moment until Sam finally says, “You aren’t Dad, Dean.” Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Sam cuts him off. “No, Dean, save it. Look at your entire life, alright? Look at—look at what you’ve done for me, what you’ve built for yourself. All the people you’ve helped, the causes you work for, the changes you’re making in the real world. Dad would <em> never—</em>” Sam shakes his head, sucks in a deep breath. “Every choice you’ve made is the opposite of what Dad would have done, no matter how crappy your options were. I just think—Dean, you’re being an idiot, I’m just going to say it.” </p><p>Dean looks up sharply, glances towards Eileen for help, but all he gets is another shrug and a bitten-back smile that is the damn opposite.</p><p>“Whatever,” Dean grumbles.</p><p>“You’re depriving yourself of something that could be <em> really </em> great for you, all because of the way a guy you’re <em> nothing </em>like handled his grief.” </p><p>Sniffing and swallowing, Dean just grunts noncommittally and spins his bottle. </p><p>Clearly at the end of his rope, Sam rubs his giant palms across his face and makes a frustrated noise. “You’re so stupid, Dean,” he says, and Dean makes a mock-offended face. “<em>Because </em>you’re smarter than this. You wanna write Castiel off, fine. But at least admit that it’s not because you’re mad at Dad or destiny, or because of some idealistic independent-omega bullshit. You're just afraid you might actually have to be happy for once.”</p><p>“Hey,” Dean protests. “Easy for you to say, <em> alpha</em>.” </p><p>Eileen slaps her hand down on the table, startling Dean into looking up at her. “What about me? Is it easy for me to say?” She raises a challenging eyebrow and Dean chews his lip, kowtowed.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says. “You know that ain’t what I meant.” </p><p>“You don’t have to like Castiel,” she continues, her eyes fiery in a way that Dean rarely sees on Eileen, save for when something genuinely means a lot to her. “But don’t act like you know him, either. Castiel is the reason I have the career that I have. He’s a <em> good </em> person, Dean. Novak Corp is one of the only companies in this city that has <em> any </em> omega department heads, and that’s <em> his </em> choice<em>. </em>Not even Kaiser Permanente does that, and they’re healthcare—you would think they’d know better. Did you know that Castiel is learning sign language?”</p><p>Unsure whether he’s actually supposed to speak, Dean opts to just shake his head no and not interrupt the tear Eileen’s on. “Yeah. I have this assistant, Liz. She transcribes meetings for me in real-time, using a shared Google doc. You know, so I don’t miss anything. <em> Castiel </em>took it upon himself to ask her for lessons, so he can communicate with me directly in situations like that, make meetings more inclusive. He does it on his own time.” </p><p>She pauses for emphasis, lets that really sink into Dean’s thick head, and he actually feels a little bit ashamed. “Well, how was I supposed to know that?” he asks defensively.</p><p>“I dunno, Dean,” Eileen retorts, rolling her eyes. “Maybe <em> ask </em>him? Maybe not slam the door in his face?”</p><p>Licking his lips, Dean rubs his wrist under his nose, trying to hide the way he knows his face is turning red. “He told you about that?” </p><p>“I mean, we’re sort of friends, Dean,” Eileen replies. “But no, not exactly. When we met today, he told us who you were to him, for Legal’s benefit. Even apologized to Sam for sharing your personal business and asked him to pass that along to you directly. He just didn’t want anything interfering with—”</p><p>Sam interrupts by slapping a hand over Eileen’s mouth, quickly whipping it away and apologizing. “Sorry,” he says with a wince. “I just didn’t want—”</p><p>“I know,” Eileen replies warmly. “You’re right, that wasn’t for us to share. Thank you.” She turns to glare down Dean again. “See? Not everything is alpha-posturing.”</p><p>“I mean, did Castiel <em> do </em>something to you?” Sam butts in. “Something that made you feel uncomfortable or upset? Because Dean, I swear, I don’t care who he is. If he did—”</p><p>“No, God no,” Dean assures him quickly, before the sharp tang of Sam’s anger can amplify and stink up the tiny room. Thankfully, the little bit that crept in dissipates as quickly as it came. </p><p>“So then why—” </p><p>“You guys really suck, you know that?” Dean complains. “You both suck, and you’re off my Christmas list. No presents this year, you get coal. Just let me sulk in peace.” </p><p>“Yeah, we would, Dean, except that you <em> want </em> to take this meeting tomorrow. Trust me,” Sam reiterates, his tone pressed. “If you don’t want anything to do with Castiel after that, well.” He shrugs. “That’s your choice. It’s your life. I’ll be disappointed in you, but I can’t <em> make </em>you do anything.” </p><p>Maybe technically he can’t, but Sam implying that Dean would be a disappointment to him is pretty much a surefire way to get his cooperation, which Sam fuckin’ <em> knows </em> and is totally using against him. <em> Goddamn alphas, </em>Dean thinks. </p><p>“Whatever,” he says out loud. “Not promising anything.” </p><p>“Alright, Dean,” Sam says with a sigh. “We’re gonna take off and leave you to your burger. Long day for all of us. But take this.” From inside his suit jacket, Sam produces a thin binder. “In case you’re interested in finding out who Castiel really is, before you write him off for good. Oh, and this was in your mail slot.” Tossing the binder down on the table first, Sam uses two fingers to slide a business card towards Dean on top of it. </p><p>Dean gulps heavily as he takes in the handwritten note; email, phone numbers, and a signature: “<em>—Cas </em> ”.</p><p>
  <em> Why does that hurt so much? </em>
</p><p>Sam squeezes his shoulder and Eileen swoops in to hug him around the neck, and Dean has to pretend for the whole ten seconds it takes for them to exit out of the kitchen door that he has no interest in whatever that binder holds.</p><p>As soon as the clomping sounds on the stairs fade away and the outside door to the shop’s office is slamming shut, Dean’s whipping it open. Over the next hour, his burger sits forgotten and cold while Dean pours over page after page of what amounts to a list of Castiel’s good deeds. All of the charities he donates to regularly, the community outreach he participates in, the extensive housing and work program Novak Corp uses to target homeless people specifically. </p><p>Most importantly to Dean, there are several <em> decent </em> omega rights groups on there; not just prop-organizations where the CEO eats up most of the donations via their salary, but <em> real </em>advocates for change. </p><p><em> Hell yeah</em>, he thinks as he reads. These are like, legit freedom fighter groups. Omega-only shelters, grant funding for low-income omega college applicants. Aid groups that represent omegas unfairly charged with crimes pro bono. That last one especially piques Dean’s interest—it’s unfortunately common for omegas to be charged after fighting back against attempted rape or domestic violence, more so than it is for their abusers to see even one minute of jail time. </p><p>Against his own will, Dean grudgingly begins to see Castiel in a new light. </p><p><em> Still. </em> This is just <em> money. </em> It’s good, but it’s not <em> him, </em> not the man himself<em>. </em>For all Dean knows, there’s someone else high up in Novak Corp making these donation selections, and Novak has nothing to do with it at all. Dean taps his fingers against the table. What he needs to do is find out for sure. </p><p>Digging into the pocket of the jumpsuit he’s still wearing folded around his waist, Dean comes up with his cell phone. He pauses only briefly before punching <em> Cas </em> ’ number in off the card, <em> just in case. </em> You never know, and Dean <em> does </em>have a business meeting with him tomorrow, regardless. Contact info entered, Dean scrolls the rest of the list until he finds who he’s looking for.</p><p>The phone starts ringing as Dean lifts it to his ear. “Charlie,” he says warmly, when his friend answers. “Hey, I need a favor.”</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Cas is one step ahead of everything, Dean's business is none of Cas', an open invitation, and a hopeful moment interrupted by something very unexpected.</p><p>Please if you are enjoying, consider giving my post a share on <a href="https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/post/623487265756282880/down-to-you-by-castielslostwings">Tumblr</a>? Or anywhere else :)</p><p>You can always follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/caslostwings">Twitter</a> or <a href="https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> for writing updates and sneak previews, if you like!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. On Grey Street</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Castiel shoots his shot.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hopefully, this isn't as predictable as I think it is 😂<br/>and if it is, I hope you like it anyway.</p><p>Thank you to @thetwistedwillow for betaing 😘</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next morning, Dean spends a lot of time wallowing in his dirty sheets, staring at the ceiling. Directly above his head, there’s a crack and a slowly-spreading water spot that’s gotten significantly bigger over the last twenty-four hours. Dean should get up. He should pull the ladder to the crawlspace down, go and investigate what the problem is, before half his house comes down on his head while he’s sleeping. </p><p>Dean doesn’t get up. Not until he’s hit snooze on his phone seven or eight times, the sun is blaring threateningly down on him through his window, and the rumbling in his stomach is too vicious to ignore. None of that bothers him as much as the persistent ache in his chest, the subtle but constant insistence in his mind that Dean is <em> missing </em>something, that things could be better than they are. </p><p>Under the single sheet he has thrown across his body, Dean kicks his legs like a tantruming toddler, making all sorts of loud and frustrated noises as he beats his hands against the mattress just for the hell of it. Feeling absolutely no better, he hauls himself out of bed and puts his feet on the floor. Hissing, he yanks his left one up immediately, sighing as he extracts a splinter from where its made itself a home just below his big toe.</p><p>Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Dean peers blearily down at the floor, and then up at the crack in the ceiling. Alright, so the spot has been dripping at some point, wearing away the wood beneath until it broke down. That’s just great. Well, on the plus side, the damage has already been done, so there’s no reason to try and rush and fix it now. </p><p>The clock says nine-thirty a.m., and Dean forces himself to get moving. Lucky for him (or not, Dean does have bills to pay), his workload has been light the past few days. Pride aside, he’s kind of kicking himself for not taking Castiel up on his offer to pay for Dean’s time—fucker can certainly afford it. While he stirs eggs in a pan, Dean can’t help but hope that’s maybe what their meeting will be about today. In truth, he’s basically living in squalor—normally he wouldn’t be one for a handout, but Castiel Novak and his billions are a damn exception, True Mate or not. </p><p>While he eats, Dean checks his phone and texts Charlie a vague, “anything?” to which he gets no response. That’s disappointing, but Charlie’s a busy chick; she’ll get back to him when she can. Shrugging that off, Dean goes about his daily routine. He pulls on clean clothes and a new jumpsuit, opens the gate to the lot, and unlocks the front door to the shop. He runs through some paperwork and pays a bill or two before heading over into the garage. Before jumping back into painting, Dean takes a half-hour break, spending it lifting weights at the rack he has set up at the rear of the middle bay. </p><p>To some, Dean’s gym set-up might seem like a luxury he can’t afford, especially when he’s got a leaky ceiling and a busted floor to contend with. But for an omega business owner in the middle of a city like this, living on his own and intent on staying that way—nothing could be further from the truth. Dean’s hard attitude and his muscles are an insurance policy—like hell is anyone going to make him a victim, or threaten the things he cares about.</p><p>For the most part, the people in the neighborhoods around here look out for each other, and Dean has far more friends than he has enemies. People like him, like how he puts himself out there, how he’s unapologetic and unafraid about what he believes and who he fights for. He’s got a reputation in activist circles and the residents of Skid Row alike, and for the most part, Dean doesn’t worry about people bothering him. If there’s trouble, it’s far less likely to come from any of his neighbors, and more likely to be started by—well, someone like Castiel, honestly. </p><p>Workout completed, Dean takes ten extra minutes to touch-up some fading portions of his big mural, shooting finger guns at his unicorn when he’s finished. Painting always soothes his nerves, helps him find his zen, as goofy as that new-age shit sounds. Today, the brush in his hand is less effective than usual, that annoying throb in his chest putting him all off-kilter. </p><p>It’s intrusive enough that it prevents Dean from being able to truly immerse himself in his work, even with his favorite classic rock channel blaring and the airbrush sprayer in his hand. Still, Dean tries, pushes through, because after all, this is his livelihood. He manages to finish the emerald paint job before he has to get cleaned up and head over to Novak Corp—but only just. </p><p>Kevin, the beta college kid Dean pays to balance his books, keep the office in order, and just hang out physically in the shop a few days per week, shows up around noon. To Dean’s relief, he says he’s happy to facilitate payment and pickup for the Gracela Dean just finished, which is a load off of Dean’s mind. He heads up to shower and change feeling a lot lighter—no matter what else happens, at least he can count on getting a paycheck today. </p><p>As he passes through his room, Dean frowns at the spot on the ceiling. It’s no bigger and it’s not dripping, but Dean’s still suspicious, eyeing it warily as he goes to clean up. </p><p>His bathroom is tiny, but clean. Dean might not have much, and sometimes what he has falls apart despite him, but he works his ass off to take care of the place all the same. The single-vanity sink might be rust-stained, but the handle shines and the basin is recently scrubbed. His toilet and shower are the same; bright white porcelain and a tiny stall that Dean and his muscles barely fit into, but there’s not a speck of mold or grime to be seen. </p><p>Today, thinking about where he’s going and who he’ll inevitably see there, Dean feels especially proud of that. </p><p><em> Fuck being rich, </em> he thinks. Dean might not have <em> money, </em> but he’s damn wealthy in the ways that matter. As if it’s not even relevant to that thought, he ignores the pain in his chest that tries suggesting he <em> could </em>be happier.</p><p><em> It’s not real, </em> he tells himself, but his traitorous mind can’t stop thinking about that stupid binder and all the ways Castiel doesn’t seem like the douchebag Dean wants him to be. <em> Where the fuck is Charlie?  </em></p><p>After shaving and doing his hair, Dean hesitates when it comes to choosing deodorant. There’s the regular stuff, and then there are heavy-duty blockers. He even has an older bottle of suppressants, shit he used to take when he was younger and still occasionally pops if his heat is coming on at an inconvenient time. Fingering the bottle thoughtfully, Dean reluctantly slips it back onto its shelf and chooses the regular deodorant. </p><p>This <em> is </em> an important meeting, and undoubtedly, not everyone there will think like Castiel. On the other hand, it’s unlikely that anyone he encounters today won’t already know that he’s an omega. Trying to neutralize himself could easily come off as weak, insecure. That’s the <em> last </em> thing Dean wants to portray himself as, <em> especially </em>if Castiel’s going around outing Dean as his True Mate. No, better to go in there as the loudest, most brazen version of who he is. Stand tall and take no shit. Smile wide, and think non-stinky thoughts. Hey, that philosophy has gotten him this far, and Dean’s damn proud of that, too. </p><p>Deciding what to wear is easy. Dean has exactly one “fancy” button-down; a light blue collared shirt that his mind blindsides him by suggesting would look much better on Castiel. The thought leaves him blinking stupidly into the mirror on the back of his bedroom door for several long seconds as his fingers falter on his belt. Outcome: Dean <em> really </em>wishes he could load up on some liquid courage before facing whatever it is he’s heading to face.</p><p>His dress pants and shoes haven’t been worn since his father’s funeral, and they’re both nearly a full size too small. After tugging the pants as far down his hips as they’ll go, Dean grimaces at his reflection and hopes that his black socks transition seamlessly enough to keep people from looking too closely. At least his hair looks good, and hey—his smile is his best damn feature, anyway. Dean grins widely at himself and shrugs, deciding that he’ll just flash that sucker at everyone he encounters. No one will be looking at his ankles then. </p><p>Choosing a ride is much harder than an outfit, since his options aren’t nearly as limited. The nature of his job pretty much mandates he own a Gracela—it’s a walking advertisement for him, even if the monthly payment has him dying inside each time the bill comes in the mail. Reasons for purchasing aside, Dean couldn’t bring himself to muck up the (if he does say so himself) <em> kickass </em>rainbow paint job on his Model S with some kind of giant decal. The thing is gorgeous; it fades light pink to dark pink to sunset orange on the left, wrapping around the rear and turning purple in the process, then blending into dark and light blue, and green to yellow across the hood. If he weren’t out and proud already, the car would have definitely taken care of that for him.</p><p>Back when he got it, after a <em> lot </em> of hemming and hawing, Dean compromised with himself and put the shop’s info on the rear bumper, just below the spoiler. He still kind of hates it, but again, <em> business—</em>sacrifices must be made in the name of success<em>.  </em></p><p>So clearly, that car is the obvious choice. So obvious that Dean can’t help but be himself and go in the complete opposite direction, sliding behind the wheel of his mint-condition ‘67 Chevy Impala instead. Sure, the closest thing <em> this </em> car has to a custom paint job is the glossy black Dean had to reapply after his father intentionally ran it into a tree (and all the rebuilding that came in between), but it’s also the <em> real </em>love of Dean’s life. </p><p>Being behind the wheel of his Baby is the quickest way to zen outside of painting Dean knows. She’s her own advertisement, too, in a way. The shop information is on the front license plate, and a car like Baby brings in at <em> least </em>as much business as the paint jobs. It’s true that custom paint is what Dean advertises most heavily for, but he also does plenty of basic maintenance and some niche classic restoration. A job is a job, and Dean has the skills for all of it, so why not? </p><p>As Skid Row fades into his rearview and downtown Los Angeles comes up on him fast, Dean breathes in the fresh air, relishes the wind in his face, and congratulates himself on making the right decision. Baby’s old-school steering wheel beneath his hands, the buttery-soft leather of her front seat—this is <em> exactly </em>what Dean needed today. By the time he’s pulling up in front of Novak Corp, he’s feeling calm, collected, and like the best version of himself he knows how to be.</p><p>Ill-fitting pants and shoes notwithstanding, but hey, nobody’s perfect. </p><p>The message on Dean’s machine from Castiel’s secretary instructed him to pull up in the unloading zone by the building’s front entrance, and that someone would be there to take care of his vehicle. For Dean, handing over Baby’s keys to the overzealous valet whose eyes light up at the mere sight of her is almost more nerve-wracking than what’s waiting for him upstairs. <em> Almost.  </em></p><p>Even as he’s trailing behind the perky little omega sent to escort him to his doom, Dean keeps his eyes over his shoulder and on his car until it’s gone. Gritting his teeth against the way he can almost <em> feel </em>the tires squealing against the concrete, Dean forces himself to turn around and pay attention. </p><p>The sprawling lobby of Novak Corp is as impressive as its towering height outside. To Dean’s right, there’s a long reception desk with multiple stations, to his far left, security. The lobby itself is two stories high, with dual staircases that curve and ascend to the second floor dominating the space. Dean honestly thought shit like that only existed in the pretentious celebrity mansions dotting the Hills, but apparently, he was wrong.</p><p><em> Everything </em>is white. The modern-looking lobby furniture, the desks and counters, and every surface from the floors to the ceilings. Crisp, clean white accented with shining silver, with tons of natural light pouring in through the slanted roof that juts out over the reception space. Dean tries not to gape, but it’s difficult—this place is so much the opposite of everything he’s used to, in both form and substance. It’s never been clearer to him how much he doesn’t belong. </p><p>But he’s here, and he’s got something to fight for, so with renewed vigor (and concern for his car) Dean straightens up and follows the omega chick—<em>Becky, </em>he’s pretty sure—into the elevator and doesn’t even flinch when she leans in not-so-subtly to sniff him. Though, he does roll his eyes. </p><p>“Don’t worry,” she tells him, in a tone that Dean could only describe as ‘gushing.’ “Mr. Novak already kicked most of the bigwigs out. It’ll just be you, Legal, and Sales and Marketing. Mr. Novak is <em> totally </em>cool—though, I hear you already found that out.” She looks up at him knowingly, and Dean’s horror must be reflected on his face because Becky goes instantly pale and slaps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry!” she squeaks. “That’s just—I mean, he didn’t—office gossip, you know how it is.”</p><p>“Really don’t,” Dean mutters.</p><p>“I am <em> so </em>sorry,” she continues, touching his arm and then retracting her hand quickly. Becky is clearly wearing blockers, but her anxiety begins to seep through them anyway.</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” Dean swears, pulling a hand down over his face, but he’s miraculously saved from having to address his new friend by the elevator chiming their arrival and the doors flying open. He doesn’t so much as wait for Becky to speak before striding off. </p><p>The decor up here makes Dean do a double-take—now <em> this </em> is more what he expected. Gone are the stark whites, replaced completely by dark woods, plush furniture, and heavy doors that lead to giant offices and ornate boardrooms. <em> Okay. </em> Dean takes a deep breath. It’s just a business meeting—he’s been through this wringer plenty of times scrounging up loans to get his shop off the ground way back when. Not that he was ever <em> granted </em>any of the loans he applied for, but still. At least he’s had practice in being let down. </p><p>Dead in front of him, the reception area opens up into one such boardroom. The doors that would section it off are both swung wide, apparently welcoming, though Dean feels more like the lamb walking into the lion’s den. He creeps forward on instinct, before he realizes what he’s doing, just following the pull in his chest that’s suddenly turned ten times stronger. When Dean looks up, he realizes it’s probably because Castiel is standing at the far end of the room, at the head of a very long, wooden table. </p><p>To his right, Eileen and Sam sit side by side, and Dean doesn’t have to look very closely at their faces to know that they’re smirking. <em> Assholes.  </em></p><p>He pulls himself together and steps into the room, desperately trying to ignore how the ache in his chest eases almost immediately, or the way that Castiel’s fingers fly to his own sternum. </p><p>Castiel looks—<em>fuck. </em> He looks <em> good. </em>More put together than he had outside Dean’s shop, not as windblown and rumpled, but still hot as hell. Those blue eyes look like someone photoshopped them onto his face and he fills out that suit he’s wearing like no one holding the title of C.E.O. has a right to. Also, his stupid tie is still backward. What an idiot. </p><p>Dean’s knees are a little weak. </p><p>It’s only when Sam clears his throat that Dean realizes he’s been standing there, staring silently at Castiel like a complete space case, although in his defense, Castiel’s doing the exact same thing. Finally managing to tear his eyes away, Dean narrows them at Becky, who is clutching some files to her chest and looking between him and Castiel with what can only be described as “heart eyes.” </p><p>
  <em> Well, this is going great.  </em>
</p><p>From across the room, Castiel clears his throat as well, and seems to snap back into some practiced professional mode that Dean is extremely grateful the man has in his arsenal. Two more minutes of this awkward-ass bullshit and he’s tossing himself out the nearest window. </p><p>“Thank you, Becky,” Castiel says gently, as Becky hands over the files, and <em> hoo boy, </em> Dean forgot—<em>how did he forget?—</em>how disgustingly sexy Castiel sounds when he talks. “You may leave us.” </p><p><em> That voice is a trap, </em> Dean thinks. Everything about this alpha is a goddamn trap, and Dean <em> hates </em> it. Almost as much as he hates the fact that he’s been sniffing for Castiel’s scent ever since he entered the room and he’s yet to be able to suss it out. <em> Blockers, </em>he thinks, half-disappointed and half-relieved.</p><p>“Dean, if you would…” Snapping Dean out of his thoughts yet again, Castiel gestures towards the seat next to him as Becky pulls the doors shut behind her. Dean balks, just a <em> little, </em> but Castiel doesn’t miss it and he falters. The slightly hurt note in his voice brings the ache in Dean’s chest roaring back to life, and <em> Jesus fuck, when can he get the hell out of here? </em> “Or if you’d be more comfortable farther away, of course, take any seat you’d like.” </p><p><em> Big boy panties, </em>Dean tells himself, rolling his eyes and squaring his shoulders before pointedly stepping forward to take the seat closest to Castiel. He raises his eyebrows challengingly across the table at Sam, who nods back at him encouragingly, hiding a thumbs up next to his binder like Dean is a toddler who just pooped on the potty for the first time. </p><p>“Alright,” Castiel continues, oblivious, and Dean has to suppress the shiver that goes down his spine when just a <em> hint </em>of toasted—slightly burnt—cinnamon reaches his nose. “I know that this is uncomfortable, and I’d first and foremost like to thank you for coming here today, Dean.” Castiel keeps his eyes lowered, and Dean’s smart enough to recognize that he’s being intentionally submissive. It’s a cute trick, but he’s certainly not sold. Not yet.</p><p>“This doesn’t have to be a drawn-out meeting, not unless you have questions one of the three of us can’t answer. I requested Sam to be here specifically, as I don’t expect you to trust me or my motives, but I am hoping you will feel comfortable trusting him, despite the fact that he’s working for me. For whatever it’s worth, I can only assure you that my intentions here are good.”</p><p>As Dean looks up at Castiel curiously, the alpha lifts his eyes for the first time and they meet again, locking intensely, just as they did when Dean entered the room. <em> Guess this is going to be a thing with us, </em>Dean thinks, but he nods anyway, because hell if he doesn’t want to move this mess along. </p><p>“Good,” Castiel replies succinctly, dropping his gaze to shuffle his papers before sliding a packet over in front of Dean. “I want to make you an offer, Dean. Winchester Custom Cars—if you’re agreeable—as of today will become an officially-sanctioned, independently contracted business for Novak Corp. Yes,” Castiel affirms with a nod, at Dean’s surprised expression. “You will be free to use the Gracela name to advertise, with no cost or expectation due to us for doing so. The only thing Novak Corp will seek from you is a fifteen percent kickback or referral fee for any job done for a client <em> directly </em>referred to you by us.”</p><p>“That’s lower than industry standard,” Sam jumps in, and Dean can only blink up at him, too floored to make words just yet.</p><p>“And since Castiel is on board, your referrals are definitely going to go up,” Eileen adds. “I was playing it safe before, but you know that. Fifteen percent for double, maybe even triple the work is a good deal, Dean. So don’t be stupid.” She grins sunnily at him, before taking a sip from the glass of water in front of her. Belatedly, Dean realizes he has one too, and that there’s also a glass pitcher sitting in the middle of the table. Dean stares at it, watches the way the ice shifts around inside, still attempting to process.</p><p>He furrows his brow. “No thanks,” he declares shortly, sliding the paperwork back towards Castiel using two fingers, and Sam slumps back in his chair with a groan.</p><p>“Dean—”</p><p>“No, come on, Sammy. Seriously? In what universe did you think I’d be cool with this? I’m not some—some <em> charity </em>case,” he spits in Castiel’s direction, swiveling angrily in his chair. “Least of all yours.”</p><p>“I—” Castiel starts, clearly taken aback, but Dean cuts him off.</p><p>“No, you know what? Fuck you. All three of you, but especially you,” he adds, poking Castiel firmly in the chest and trying not to notice how <em> extremely </em>nice he feels under only one goddamn finger. “You can’t buy me off. You’re so used to just—throwing money at your problems, but guess what? That ain’t gonna work with me. I don’t need your handouts or your help.” Dean pushes back his seat from the table, getting ready to storm off, but Castiel’s voice stops him.</p><p>“You’re an idiot,” he says evenly and that has Dean turning back around, both incredulous and furious.</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“You heard me. I have no idea how you’ve managed to keep a business afloat this long with the instincts you’ve shown here. To throw away a lucrative, no-strings offer like this—” Castiel cuts himself off this time, shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes have turned cold and calculating, and Dean really has to fight not to succumb to the desire to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness. <em> Fuck that.  </em></p><p>“You’re a dick.”</p><p>“You’re unbelievably selfish.” </p><p>“Selfish? Because I don’t want some douchebag alpha to Daddy Warbucks me? Because I <em> care </em>about protecting what I’ve built? Christ, whatever cosmic entity paired us up sure screwed the pooch on this one. Asshole.”</p><p>“Uh, guys?” Sam’s voice sounds from somewhere behind Dean, which is weird, because he was definitely to Dean’s left just a minute ago and—<em>oh. </em></p><p>Somehow, Dean’s ended up with the front of Castiel’s dress shirt fisted in his hand, and he’s got the guy backed up against the far wall, forearm pressed tightly across his chest to keep him there. Less than three inches from Dean’s nose, Castiel’s eyes are still hard and fierce, but his hands are down by his sides and he’s—he’s <em> letting </em>Dean hold him there.</p><p>“Oops,” Dean mutters sheepishly, dropping Castiel’s clothing and shoving himself away a bit more harshly than necessary. “Dude, I’m sorry, I—”</p><p>Castiel just grunts as he straightens his shirt, unable to fully iron out the wrinkle that’s now in the middle of his chest with only his fingers. “It is not of import,” he says gruffly. </p><p>Frustrated, Dean paces a little, running his fingers through his hair. He stops to lean on the back of his seat before taking a long drink from his own glass of water. </p><p>“I’d offer you something harder, but something tells me this situation doesn’t need alcohol as an accelerant,” Castiel says, which actually makes Dean laugh. Sam and Eileen exchange uneasy glances from where they’re hovering across the table from Dean, but at the very least, Castiel doesn’t seem angry about Dean’s manhandling of him. Or maybe he pressed a secret panic button and the police are on the way, that’s possible too. That seems more like Dean’s luck.</p><p>“Listen,” Dean growls, his tone met swiftly by a warning look from Sam, so he tries to pare it back. “Listen,” he repeats, slightly more softly. “You gotta understand—what this feels like to <em> me.</em>” </p><p>Dean pauses, and Castiel jumps in, moving closer to the table and subsequently, to Dean, who struggles between wanting to flee and wanting to get <em> all </em> up in Castiel’s business. “I believe I do,” Castiel says sincerely, one hand held out like Dean is a wild horse that might spook. Not unfair. “You’re worried that this is a ploy to make you like me, to get you to give me a chance, or worse, to create a situation where you become dependent on me and have no other choice but to allow me to mate you. No, I believe I understand quite well what you’re worried about. What I <em> don’t </em> understand is why <em> you </em>believe your brother and Eileen would ever allow that, or go along with it willingly.” </p><p>Working his jaw, Dean chances a peek up at the two people in question, and he has to admit, Castiel has a point. They’re both looking back at him imploringly, although that only makes Dean wonder whose side they’re really on. </p><p>“We’re on your side,” Eileen tells him, which makes Dean realize he asked that out loud. Damn, but he’s a whole mess. </p><p>Castiel doesn’t look remotely bothered by that declaration, and in fact, he nods. “That’s why they’re here, Dean,” he says. </p><p>Licking his lips (and not missing the way Castiel watches him do it,) Dean shoves his hands into his pockets and focuses on Sam. “So you think this is a good idea? There’s no clause in there where, you know, they can change the fee percentage at any time? Or like, if I’m fifteen minutes late with the payment, they own my shop? Or, um, me?” The last sentence makes him flush red, but it <em> has </em> to be asked. It <em> has </em> to, because that’s the world they live in, and Dean <em> needs </em>to hear it with his own ears.</p><p>“Absolutely not,” Sam says emphatically. “Dean, I read the contract over at least five times. I wrote and proofed it myself, didn’t even send it to my paralegal. Do you hear me? <em> I </em>wrote this, Dean. You have nothing to worry about, and everything to gain. And anyway, to be clear, the alternative is that you leave here today and strip the Gracela name off of everything.”</p><p>Dean can’t do that.</p><p>Chewing his lip, Dean darts glances between Castiel and his brother, before finally jutting his chin out in the barest of nods. He accepts the pen Sam holds out, but before he can get it to the paper, Castiel interrupts again.</p><p>“In the interest of full transparency, I should tell you one thing,” he says, almost hesitantly, and Dean waits, raising his eyebrows in question. Castiel actually looks <em> nervous, </em> rubbing the bottom of his tie between his thumb and forefinger and blinking a lot. “I—well, the truth is, I <em> was </em>hoping this offer would make you want to give me a chance. Not to mate,” he adds hastily, eyes going wide. “Nothing like that, of course. Just—just to talk. I was hoping you might want to talk.” </p><p>It’s Dean’s turn to hesitate for a long moment, but in the end, he takes a deep breath, scribbles his name on the paper, and then straightens up only to drop his hands to his sides with a loud <em> slap. </em>“You said something about alcohol?” </p><p>For the first time since they accidentally scented each other in the parking lot outside Dean’s shop, Castiel smiles. And <em> that </em> sight does not make things <em> any </em>easier for Dean. </p><p>With Sam’s palm resting warm and reassuring on his shoulder, their group heads out of the meeting room and back into the reception area. Sam’s going on about notarization and filing while Castiel hums his approval behind them, but Dean’s not paying attention. He’s busy thinking about what a mistake he’s making agreeing to spend more time with Castiel. At this point, mostly because Dean’s afraid of what <em> he’ll </em>do when they are. The guy makes him soft, makes him question goddamn everything.</p><p>He is—well, he’s <em> all </em>alpha, and Dean’s body wants all kinds of things his mind is having a hell of a time keeping in check. </p><p>“You’ll be fine,” Eileen whispers, not as quietly as she probably thinks while she’s pulling the boardroom door open. </p><p>And Dean means to respond—something snarky and hilarious for sure, but his attention is completely stolen when he steps out into the reception area and comes face to face with—</p><p>“Charlie,” Dean says in surprise. He narrows his eyes as Charlie’s innocent little face goes sheepish and pink. </p><p>“Oh, great timing!” Becky declares from where she’s standing behind her desk. It’s parked somewhat intimidatingly outside of what Dean presumes is Castiel’s office, clearly meant as a checkpoint or roadblock, though Becky doesn’t look like much of a bouncer. Despite everything, Dean can’t help but note that her desk alone is ornately carved and solid wood—the thing must have cost twice his monthly rent. “Charlie just finished her orientation, she came back up to drop off her contract.” </p><p>“<em>Excuse </em> me?” Dean interjects. “What the fuck?” </p><p>“I’m sorry, Dean,” she pleads, but Castiel shuts them all up by sliding past Dean and squeezing his bicep. When Dean’s eyes follow in surprise, he winks and shrugs. Oh, Dean <em> hates </em> this guy. And also kind of wants to jump his bones, <em> fuck.  </em></p><p>“It’s fine if <em> you </em>want to underestimate me, Dean,” Castiel says breezily, taking the packet of paperwork from Becky’s hands and flipping through casually. “But you’re going to have to get used to being surprised when I surpass expectations. Charlie works for me, now,” he concludes, somewhat smugly, scribbling on the packet himself before holding it out towards Dean’s brother. “Sam, would you take these down to H.R., since you’re going? Thanks.” </p><p>With a knowing smile, Sam accepts the handout and nods, backing away towards the elevator bank Dean came up on. To Dean’s dismay, Eileen follows, wiggling her fingers at him and grinning while Dean tries hard to pop their heads like balloons using the power of his mind. </p><p>“Dean, don’t be mad,” Charlie pleads, appearing suddenly at his side. “Castiel’s paying me a shit ton of money to shore up their cybersecurity systems. Plus, when I’m done, I get to consult on Novak Corp’s charitable donations, have a real say in what goes where. This is a <em> huge </em>opportunity,” she tells him. Besides the fact that she’s right, Dean would be a real asshole if he tried to rain on Charlie’s parade when she’s so clearly thrilled about it.</p><p>He sighs. “Great, Charlie,” he replies reluctantly, though he continues glaring at Castiel. “Breaking news, Castiel Novak can buy nearly everyone’s loyalty.”</p><p>“I mean, to be fair, he offered me a job instead of calling the FBI about my numerous alleged cyber crimes and, um, wire fraud,” Charlie says, chagrined, and Dean raises his eyebrows. </p><p>“You <em> stole </em>from him?!”</p><p>“Hey, you sicc’ed me on this place, you know how I get with one-percenters and poorly-secured funds.” That’s true. It’s why Dean called her to begin with; Charlie’s been hacking giant corporations and the headquarters of conservative parties the world over basically since she could type. Her M.O. is Robin Hood-ing cash out of the hands of the rich and into the accounts of the most needy and those trying to make the world better. Apparently, Novak Corp isn’t such an easy target. Once again, Dean has to reluctantly admit that Castiel is being the way bigger person here (damn cool about it, actually), and he resents that greatly.</p><p>“Perhaps we don’t discuss this out here,” Castiel suggests lightly, but there’s humor in his voice as he holds the door to his office open and gestures inside. </p><p>“Oh, uh—thank you. I mean, really, <em> thank you. </em> But I actually have a thing,” Charlie demurs, following in Sam and Eileen’s footsteps over to the elevators. As she passes, she stands on her tiptoes to whisper in Dean’s ear. “He chose them himself,” is all she says, but Dean gets the memo. <em> Dammit. </em>How the hell is he supposed to continue hating this guy, when everyone insists on giving him reasons not to?</p><p>“Don’t you dare,” Dean growls. “The least you can do—”</p><p>“Sorry,” Charlie squeaks, hopping into an elevator that comes a <em> lot </em>faster than Dean thinks should be remotely friggin’ possible. She waves as the doors close in front of her. </p><p>“Goddamn it.” </p><p>From behind him, Castiel’s voice comes soft and surprisingly gentle. “You don’t have to feel obligated to drinks,” he says. “Of course you are free to leave, if that’s what you want.” </p><p>“Cas,” Dean says with a sigh, still facing the elevators where all of his safety nets have unceremoniously disappeared. “First lesson in Dean Winchester: it’s probably safe to assume that unless it’s a burger, a beer, my business, or a blowjob, I don’t know what the hell I want.” </p><p>“Would thirty-year Macallan be a sufficient substitute for beer?”</p><p>Dean finally turns around, interest renewed. “Whiskey? Now you’re speaking my language.”</p><p>“I could have someone bring up beer…”</p><p>“Cas,” Dean repeats, as he follows the man into his office. “Pour the whiskey.”</p><p>***</p><p>Maybe drinking with Castiel wasn’t the best idea Dean’s ever had. Two hours later, and his defenses are down in a way he never intended. Being an omega has made lots of things automatic in Dean’s life, stuff that alphas like Sam and Castiel never even have to consider. Working out, obviously. Blockers when going to a bar. A two-drink max on any first date with an alpha, and any alcohol he <em> does </em>consume has to come from a bartender or a previously unopened bottle, preferably one Dean bought himself. </p><p>So how Dean came to be on his third two-fingers of whiskey, poured from a bottle Castiel’s already worked his way halfway through, that’s definitely new. While he’d love to blame the alpha perched on the seat across from him for all of his bad decisions, Dean’s not actually drunk, so he really can’t. No, this is a hole he’s dug himself, and try as he might, he can’t even regret shoveling his way down here.</p><p>It’s just—it’s <em> weirdly </em> easy to talk to Cas, in a way Dean didn’t expect at all. Weirdly easy to be around him. Despite the fact that the alpha himself is wearing blockers, this is Castiel’s <em> office, </em>and his scent is everywhere. Being surrounded by the enticing spicy-smoky smell did a number on Dean right off the bat. His night spent tossing and turning, aching and yearning and being wholly pissed about it—Cas’ scent is like a balm to his soul, carrying all of those pained emotions away on the wind. </p><p>It’s not magic. Cas’ scent isn’t drugging Dean, and maybe it would be easier if it were. There’s definitely a physiologic aspect to the internal peace he feels, but Dean’s still fully in control. He’s himself. He could leave if he wanted to, could punch Cas in the face, could tell him to take his whiskey and shove it. Dean isn’t entirely sure what he expected, but the things he’s seen and heard about True Mates—well, it maybe wasn’t this. Secretly, he sort of thought that Cas’ pheromones would turn him stupid and compliant, transform him into a Stepford robot before he even knew what was happening.</p><p>So much for that theory. Dean’s himself, and he’s still here talking to the guy hours later. Not only that, but he’s kind of enjoying it. </p><p><em> It doesn’t make any sense, </em>Dean thinks, as he takes in Castiel, slumped casually in one of the curved leather chairs he keeps arranged around a coffee table at the far end of his office. There’s a couch too, but Dean wasn’t about to potentially open the door to that kind of closeness. Nearly three drinks in himself, Castiel looks as relaxed and content as Dean feels, the calf of his left leg resting on the knee of his right, and a dopey grin on his face as he swirls some melting ice around in his glass.</p><p>By all rights, Dean shouldn’t have <em> anything </em> to discuss with this man. They couldn’t be from more different worlds, couldn’t have less in common. And yet, they’ve been firing the typical first date questions back and forth without pause or any actual awkwardness at all. They hit the lighter stuff first, obviously—turns out they both like classic rock—but wound up trading stories about first concerts and favorite teenage angst songs. It didn’t stop there, though—they delved easily into childhood anecdotes and all kinds of other bullshit that Dean hasn’t talked to a stranger about in years, maybe ever.</p><p>Their conversation flowed so freely, and Castiel seemed genuinely interested in learning about Dean, in hearing about the things he cares about and what’s made him who he is today. Whether it was the alcohol lubing the way or the conversation easing Dean’s worries about drinking, somehow, they found their stride and kept on going. </p><p>And now here Dean is, with the dregs of his third glass of whiskey in his hand and a pleasant buzz clouding his mind. He’s coming off of learning that Castiel had a twin brother who died the same year that Dean’s dad didn’t survive wrapping the Impala around a tree, and Castiel doesn’t even flinch when Dean says, “I get it.” </p><p>It’s been a long time since Dean’s let someone new into his head, never mind his heart. Since he’s had <em> any </em>damn interest in sharing about his family and his parents, how goddamn hard life was when they each up and left him. Dean’s not ashamed of anything he’s done or had to do, but he’s not a guy who dwells in his past, or even talks about it. </p><p>Yet somehow, he finds himself spilling his whole goddamn history to <em> Castiel, </em>who listens without judgment or pity, two things Dean can’t stand being directed his way. In the end, he tells Castiel exactly what he told Sam the night before, that “True Mates” just isn’t a thing he thinks he can do. Unlike with Sam, Dean hesitantly adds, “nice as this is,” before clearing his throat and looking down at his lap.</p><p>By the time he stops talking, Castiel’s glass is empty, and he doesn’t refill it. Dean braces himself to be kicked to the curb—<em>hell, half of him still wants it—</em>but Castiel just wanders over to his desk, picks up his landline, and presses some buttons, speaking low to whoever is on the other end. When he hangs up, he offers Dean a warm smile that’s edged with sadness. </p><p>“I’m not a very accessible man,” he says, tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk. “And it seems as if you need the ball to be kept in your court with this. Forgive the terrible analogy,” he adds. “Dean, I—I would very much like to continue seeing you, but I have no idea how you’re feeling, or where your boundaries lie. I don’t want to overstep.” He comes around and stands in front of Dean, intense gaze both imploring and hopeful. </p><p>Feeling brave, Dean takes a deep breath, plops his glass down on the table with a clatter, and stands up. There are less than two feet between him and Cas now, the closest they’ve been today, and for a long moment, Dean really thinks something is going to happen. Castiel’s blockers are fading as the day wears on, and Dean can smell <em> him</em>, wants to bury his face in his neck and stay there. </p><p>It’s tough for Dean—almost impossible for him to tell where biology ends and his own feelings and desires begin. He wants Cas, but does he really? What all about this is real, and how can he ever know for sure? </p><p>Right now, he barely cares. Castiel smells amazing, looks even better, and grudgingly, Dean can admit that the guy is <em> not </em>the untouchable douchebag he was so intent on believing he was. He’s not perfect, either—he’s got some really problematic thoughts about omegas and about his own role in the way the world is right now, but shit, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Dean’s not ruling out at least taking the guy to bed over it. </p><p>He catches himself at the last second, right as Castiel’s eyes flicker down to his lips and Dean is <em> just </em>tipsy enough to follow through. “Whoa,” he breathes, holding out a hand and letting his fingertips come to rest in the middle of Cas’ chest. “I—Not yet.” </p><p>Licking his lips, Castiel blinks a few times, coming back to himself and taking a step back. “Of course, Dean, I wasn’t—”</p><p>“I was,” Dean admits roughly. “But like… I don’t know how this works. The Mates thing. If we—” He makes a crude gesture with his hands that makes Castiel crack a smile. “—is it just sex? Will it make this bond-thing we have going on stronger? I just—I need more time. I can’t say that I want that, that I’ll ever want that, even if I don’t, you know, hate your guts.” </p><p>“That’s fair,” Castiel replies agreeably, blue eyes shining in a way that makes Dean regret everything he’s just said. <em>Fuck it, </em>at least half of him thinks, <em>let’s dive in.</em> </p><p>A knock at the door stops that trainwreck idea in its tracks as a bearded man with thinning hair on top bursts in. “Hello, boys,” the man says, with a pronounced British accent. He’s dressed as sharply as Castiel; full suit, tie, waistcoat—but something about him tells Dean that his dapper appearance is <em> much </em> more intentional. As he draws closer, Dean catches a whiff—alpha—of <em> money, </em>all types, but especially change. Copper as a defining note, which, weird. It reminds Dean of blood. He wrinkles his nose.</p><p>“This is Crowley,” Castiel says, waving between them. “Crowley, this is Dean Winchester.” </p><p>“Charmed,” Crowley says sarcastically, barely looking at Dean before tugging Castiel aside. It’s a pointless gesture, designed only to make Dean feel snubbed, since he can hear them easily, can see the way Crowley eyes him with disdain. “Are you absolutely certain about this, Castiel? Don’t make me say ‘I told you so’, when he murders you in your sleep or makes off with your TV.” </p><p>“Standing right here,” Dean interjects. “Sure about what?” </p><p>“As I was saying,” Castiel tells him, pulling away from Crowley and returning to Dean’s side. “I’m not a very accessible man. But I can make myself accessible to you. Or, my home, at least. Come.” </p><p>Before Dean can protest, Castiel’s fingers are closing hot around his wrist, and he’s leading him to the back corner of his office, where Dean <em> thought </em>an elevator was hiding. He was right. With only minor grumbling from Crowley, the elevator is called and they all pile in, Crowley opening a control panel and pressing all sorts of buttons that make the glass panel on the wall flash red. </p><p>“Hand,” he demands, impatiently reaching out to grab Dean’s and smack it down when Dean doesn’t move quickly enough for his liking. “Spread those fingers out, leave it there.” After another minute, some beeping, and Dean lifting and putting his hand back down a couple more times, Crowley pronounces them finished. “Fingerprint will transfer to your door and a garage opener is in his vehicle,” he grumbles, before angrily stabbing the highest of the elevator’s three call buttons with his thumb.</p><p>The doors open back up to Castiel’s office, and Dean is wholly confused. “Last chance to change your mind,” Crowley offers as he steps out, but Castiel just smiles and waves him off. When the doors close again, Castiel presses the middle button, and the elevator lurches downward. Dean tries not to feel panicked at being stuck in the small space and going God knows where, but one touch of Castiel’s fingers to the inside of his wrist and all of those raucous emotions settle right the fuck down.</p><p>Dean breathes out, and the elevator stops, but the doors don’t open.</p><p>“Put your hand on the sensor,” Castiel says softly, and Dean complies. </p><p><em> Dean Winchester, </em> the screen reads once he does. <em> Access Granted. </em> The doors slide open. </p><p>“I thought,” Castiel continues, as he steps out into what appears to be a little foyer. “That you might appreciate being able to come and go from here freely. It’s a small thing, I know, but I couldn’t think of what else to offer that might help you feel in control.” </p><p>“I don’t get it,” Dean says, confused and spinning around with his hands open. “Why are you giving me access to some secret office? Is this like… a hookup thing?” </p><p>Next to him, Castiel laughs as he steps up to the far door, pulling Dean with him and placing Dean’s index finger on the door’s sensor. He smiles when it clicks open. “Dean,” he says. “This is my home.” </p><p>Over the next half hour, Dean wanders through Castiel’s space with incredulity. His emotions swing wildly, alternately between appreciating and marveling at how incredible it is and being extremely furious that any <em> one </em>person could live this way while so many people suffer. Ultimately, Dean tables his hate, because Cas is being genuinely sensitive and kind, and Dean thinks the guy might just be teachable. </p><p>Plus, he has this <em> incredible </em> garden oasis out on his roof, and a <em> pool. </em>Dean hasn’t swam in a pool since he was ten and the community one hadn’t shut down yet, and he can’t help but think that getting to know Cas might be worth it just for the opportunity. The garden, though—it’s pretty damn special. Like disappearing out of the city completely, at least for a minute. Castiel seems different out there, too—softer, more relaxed. Something about seeing him standing in the sunshine, with those same notes curling off of his skin… If Dean’s being honest, it’s in that moment that he decides he’s coming back.</p><p>When they finally make it back inside, Castiel explains about his hidden garage, that the valet who took Dean’s car parked it down there and left him his own remote to open it. </p><p>“You don’t even know me,” Dean finally blurts out. “Why would you—”</p><p>“Because I want to know you,” Castiel says simply, standing way too close and making Dean dizzy with the way his scent is undercut with honest sincerity, maybe even a hint of desperation. “And this is the only thing you’ll let me give you.” </p><p>All of the things he said earlier go out the window. When Castiel leans in, stopping short so that Dean can make the decision whether or not to meet him halfway, Dean goes easily, willingly. His lips tingle at the thought of touching Castiel’s and his arms practically scream to fold the alpha into them. <em> Just </em>as they’re about to kiss, the door to Castiel’s apartment slams open and someone charges in. </p><p>“Claire?” Castiel says, stepping quickly away from Dean. “You’re back, I—”</p><p>“Dean?” Claire interjects, cutting Castiel off and squinting between them. “Wait—is this him? <em> Dean Winchester </em> is your True Mate?” She bursts out laughing, one leather-clad arm wrapping around her stomach to brace her abs. “Oh, <em> that’s </em>rich.” She shakes a finger in Castiel’s direction. “I changed my mind. I’m all in for this shitshow.” </p><p>“Hey,” Dean protests. “Only I get to call us that.” </p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says, his tone full of confusion. “This is my niece, Claire.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean says, winking in Claire’s direction. “We’re acquainted, although I didn’t know she was a <em> Novak. </em>Little lying scamp.” When Castiel continues looking like a lost puppy, Dean takes pity on him. “Activist stuff. Claire’s girlfriend Kaia runs one of the groups I roll with. Couple of weeks ago I did a Black Omega Lives Matter mural over in West Hollywood. Claire and Kaia helped me finish it up. We were at the protests together like, five days in a row. We’re tight. Speaking of which—” Dean thumbs over the corner of his own mouth, mirroring where Claire has a budding bruise and abrasion.</p><p>She touches her fingers to it lightly before shrugging. “Oh, yeah. Police breaking up the crowds near City Hall earlier,” she says. “Got on the wrong side of some cop’s fist.”</p><p>“Claire,” Castiel admonishes, his jaw dropping. “You what?”  </p><p>“Thanks for outing me, Hasselhoff,” Claire complains with a roll of her eyes, brushing past Dean and heading for the fridge, where she pulls out a bottle of water and takes a drink. “Just don’t tell any of our friends, or I’ll kick your ass. I like not worrying about who only wants me for my money.” When Dean crosses his heart and holds out his pinkie finger, she grins and wanders back over to his side. “You’re alright for an old man.” Claire says the words casually as she links her own pinkie with his, but the underlying meaning behind them cuts a little deeper than Dean cares to admit at the moment. </p><p>That’s fair, he did just blow up her life accidentally. Not just that, but he <em> does </em> know Claire, and by default, he knows <em> Cas—</em>Claire’s talked about him plenty of times. The bits and pieces he’s heard about the alpha via his niece are all slotting into place now, and Dean quickly realizes <em>why </em>she said that. It’s not a dig, it’s a warning for Dean, from one omega to another. </p><p>Castiel wants kids. That’s the message here. Dean remembers now—Claire’s rich, kind but somewhat oblivious uncle, the one with the crazy family pressure to produce an heir for his fortune and his business, that’s <em> his Cas</em>. The uncle Claire loves and the business Claire desperately wants to inherit but can’t, because patriarchy and society, or whatever—Dean doesn’t get that at all. </p><p>Dean’s head is suddenly spinning, and he swallows hard. <em> But fuck it, </em>he thinks. If that’s what Castiel wants, they should just get this shit out in the open now, let Cas reject him and Dean can get on with his life, True Mate and billionaire-free. He straightens up and turns to face Castiel, lifting one shoulder like he couldn’t care less. </p><p>“I’m infertile,” he says bluntly. “Just so you know. I can’t—” he waves his hand vaguely in Claire’s direction. “That heir you want. Buncha little rugrats running around. Never gonna happen.” </p><p>Castiel’s face does a million things, but it finally settles on something sort of blank—not a great sign. When he speaks, he’s clearly being cautious, which Dean both hates and can appreciate. “Earlier, you said that I should assume you don’t know what you want,” Castiel starts. “I’m starting to think that you and I are more alike in that department than I thought.” He pauses. “It’s not a dealbreaker, Dean, not by a long shot.” </p><p>“It’s not?” Claire pipes up in surprise, and Castiel shoots her a look that has her going back to drinking her water quietly, still watching them like Dean and Castiel are her favorite Spanish soap opera. </p><p>“It’s not?” Dean echoes, surprised at the relief he feels, and unclear about what to do with that. He clears his throat. “I mean, uh, okay. If you’re sure.” </p><p>The smile that crosses Castiel’s face in response lingers in Dean’s mind long after he leaves Novak Corp in his rearview mirror that night. As does Castiel’s soft, “We’ll make it up as we go. Come back when you’re ready,” as he lingered in the doorway to his apartment, watching the elevator doors slide closed with Dean inside.</p><p>At the last second, Dean had stuck his hand out, stopping them in their tracks to say, “You know what? I think you need to come and visit me instead. ‘Cause baby, you got no idea what kind of tree you’re barking up.” He paused, winking before letting go of the doors. “I think my handprint sensor is currently broken, but you can just knock.”  </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Actions speak louder than words (but words are good too), Cas puts his body where his money is (which Dean likes a <i>lot</i>), changing the world isn’t easy, Claire’s got a double life, and Cas checks out the way the other half lives.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Grace on Fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Dean: alright, now i hate you for making it so hard to hate you<br/>Castiel: you’ve discovered my plan… ensnare you with lukewarm mediocrity<br/></i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry this chapter was a bit delayed. I wanted to make sure the content was done justice, and it went for sensitivity reads before posting.</p><p>Warnings: This chapter directly addresses BLM, police brutality, and the unjust way marginalized folx are treated in the US. There is a scene from an actual protest that turns violent, and several characters (Dean, Claire, Kaia, Max, and Alicia) are on-screen victims of police brutality. There is frank demonstration of privilege and racism, plus in this world, gender-related oppression. Everyone comes out the end of the chapter "relatively" unharmed (no deaths or disabling injuries). </p><p>Cas has some very problematic thoughts that come from his privilege. He does learn the hard way that he's wrong, at others' expense. Going forward, he will NOT be depicted as the ultimate white savior, things will not *magically* turn around and be perfect in the world once he lends his support, but he is the archetypal example of what needs to change out here in the *real* world, and he will be used as such. That may be bothersome to you, it is certainly more idealistic than our current reality, but I'm aiming for "hopeful realism". </p><p>I'm not looking for concrit on this chapter unless you are BIPOC and felt that something was insensitive or offensive--then I absolutely want to hear from you and am listening. What will not be entertained or tolerated in the comments is ANY form of "all lives matter" or other racism-you can click <a href="https://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/philosophy/black-lives-matter-essay-why-is-saying-all-lives-matter-wrong">here</a> or any of the links at the bottom and educate yourself, if you don't understand why that's problematic. </p><p>Thank you to @thetwistedwillow, @pingnova, and @coinofstone for betaing and for the sensitivity reads (and for increasing readability with lots of new paragraphs *cough*ping*cough*). &lt;3 </p><p>And thank you ALL for sticking with me, your comments and kudos have really driven this story forward and kept me inspired.&lt;3 &lt;3 love you all.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Over the next few weeks that follow, Castiel’s life begins to change. Slowly at first—so glacially, in fact, that he barely notices. </p><p>Dean doesn’t return.</p><p>He doesn’t show up randomly on Castiel’s doorstep, he isn’t ever waiting outside on the patio when Castiel gets home from work. Sadly, no matter how many times Castiel fantasizes about it, he doesn’t magically appear tucked under the covers of Castiel’s giant bed, either. Alright, that last one is a <em> lot </em>to ask, Castiel knows that, but he can hardly help the way his mind wanders or what nightly dreamscapes it presents him with.</p><p>Perhaps Castiel’s expectations were too high, after that all-too-brief evening spent at Dean’s side. The omega had been shockingly receptive, a near-one-eighty from his behavior in the boardroom. Their frank conversations and Dean’s openness to having them at all had given Castiel all sorts of mad hope, had him jumping way ahead of himself.</p><p>It seems likely, in retrospect, that he put Dean off with his open invitation to his home, but Castiel still wouldn’t go back and do things any differently. It’s <em>very </em> clear to him now that at the least, the only way to win Dean over is to be himself. To let Dean see who he is, who he <em> tries </em>to be, flaws, faults, and all. Dean is perceptive, intrusive, and unafraid to call Castiel on anything he sees as bullshit. Whether that’s accusing him of trying to buy off his entire support system (not unfair) or casually but pointedly calling out Castiel’s extravagant living space, Dean doesn’t hold back.</p><p>Being anything other than his authentic self will not fly with someone like that.</p><p>Which, for the record, is not something Castiel is used to. Those who surround him—his staff, his employees, other wealthy friends—are almost constantly telling him how <em> good </em> he is, how well he uses his resources, what an <em> example </em> he is to others who don’t do nearly as much. They comment on the restraint in his lifestyle, compared to what it could be. They tell Castiel that he’s a <em> good man </em> for donating, for volunteering, for setting up the outreach programs Novak Corp offers. In truth, Castiel’s perhaps never fully bought into all that, but it <em> is </em> easier to pretend that he does. Easier not to consider what he would <em> have </em>to do, if he didn’t.</p><p>Dean doesn’t think that way. Dean doesn’t have any interest in patronizing him, in staying on Castiel’s good side or in his good graces. Dean doesn’t <em> want </em>anything from him, and therefore, he’s honest. He’s real. Just a few hours in Dean’s presence saw so many things Castiel’s been content to accept or ignore yanked out into the harsh light of day, so much of his personal status quo turned unceremoniously onto its head.</p><p>That night in Castiel’s apartment, Dean hadn’t censored himself at all. With so many casual quips floating out of his mouth without a second thought, Castiel’s not sure Dean even realized the impact he was having. While Castiel showed him around and Dean reacted to this and that, Castiel found himself increasingly unable to avoid feeling like he was falling into an existential crisis. Meanwhile, Dean didn’t think twice about flippantly mentioning how no one he knows can even afford the twelve dollar ticket price to see a movie in theaters, and here Castiel is with a screen the Multiplex would be jealous of in his<em> living room. </em> </p><p>There’s a lot to process, and for once, Castiel doesn’t shove it all away and ignore it with careful justifications and excuses. He’d be lying if he said he had any clue what to do about these issues, but he’s begun contemplating a lot more critically his own choices and motivations. It’s a start—or at least, he thinks it is. He’s not entirely sure he trusts his own judgement anymore.</p><p>More importantly than <em> stuff,</em> though, there is a bigger revelation at stake. However painful, it’s become abundantly clear to Castiel that people are not honest with him. His entire inner circle does nothing but butter him up, pat his back, and tell him all the things he’s doing right. Even Crowley, who certainly doesn’t shy away from saying what he thinks, doesn’t do so about anything that really <em> matters—</em>only issues that might affect Castiel’s reputation or jeopardize his wealth and status. </p><p>It’s somewhat of a disturbing epiphany to undergo, to realize one cannot count on feedback or advice from <em> anyone </em>that one engages with on a daily basis. </p><p>Of course, that isn’t true, either. There’s Claire, who Castiel has also been forced to abruptly see in an entirely different light. Claire, raised with the extreme wealth and privilege that she has been, isn’t <em> exactly </em> like Dean. Castiel’s not a fool—Claire wouldn’t give up that TV if he asked her to—but he <em> has </em> been taking her for granted, and apparently, he doesn’t know much at all about who she is and what she cares about. Of all the people surrounding him, <em> Claire </em> is the most honest, the most genuine, and a <em> lot </em>of what she says on a daily basis sounds extremely similar to Dean’s blurted out inner monologue. </p><p>It’s just that Castiel’s been blind, willfully so in many cases—choosing to write Claire off as young and idealistic, naive or unaware of how the world really works. He’s inadvertently played into so many gross omega stereotypes when it comes to his niece that it truly disgusts him to think about. It would appear, in retrospect, that he may be the one who is actually naive and with a poor understanding of how the world “really works”. </p><p>He can change that. Castiel <em> wants </em>to do better. He needs help, though, and while he suspects Dean may be the man for the job, he can’t ask that of him. Fortunately, Dean makes it easy, ensuring that Castiel never has to.</p><p>It starts with a text message. </p><p>About a week after his meeting-turned-more with Dean, Castiel is in his office working long beyond when business hours have officially ended. It’s nearly summer, so the sun is starting to go down much later than usual. The light outside Castiel’s office is still fairly bright and pink, even for eight p.m. As such, his phone lighting up doesn’t immediately catch his eye, and Castiel only notices he has a new message when he picks it up to check in on Claire. </p><p>Squinting down at the screen, Castiel blinks a few times, wondering if he’s hallucinating. The number isn’t familiar, but the message is clear enough, and his spirit soars. </p><p>
  <em> Unknown Number: If you’re waiting to visit til I get that handprint sensor fixed, I got some bad news for you, buddy. </em>
</p><p>Settling back into his luxe leather chair, Castiel swipes open the message and rereads it anxiously, a grin spreading across his face that is so wide it makes his cheeks hurt. It was a risk, not following up immediately on Dean’s own invite, but something told Castiel to hold back, to let Dean come to him. Maybe not literally, but this message suggests he <em> might </em>be on the right track. </p><p>After all, what he put Dean through the other day would be a <em> lot </em>to process for anyone. It’s very likely that the man needed some space and time (and probably to sit Charlie down and grill her excruciatingly) before he was ready for any additional potential-True-Mate interaction. </p><p>Licking his lips, Castiel fiddles with his touchpad for a moment, adding “<em>Dean”</em> to his contact list before attempting a reply.</p><p>
  <em> Castiel: Good evening to you, too, Dean. It’s nice to hear from you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: For two dudes with open-door invites, we haven’t seen much of each other </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel: Is that something you’d like to change? </em>
</p><p>The three little dots that indicate Dean is typing pop up and disappear a total of three times, with several breaks in between before Castiel finally receives another message.</p><p>
  <em> Dean: yeah, maybe.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: but gotta admit, this doesn’t suck. Texting. No confusing hormones or whatever. No billionaire bachelor pad with lightbulbs that cost as much as my entire electric bill to try and wrap my head around. Might be good for us. Hows your pool? </em>
</p><p>Casual social interaction is hard enough for Castiel as it is, and he can’t say that he agrees with Dean’s assessment of texting, fun emoticons aside. Although, he can certainly understand why, in this case, Dean might prefer it. For Castiel, though, the hormones ease the way, creating a natural pull between them that underscores his own awkwardness and difficulty relating with something positive and intriguing to make up for it. Texting is just—all <em> him,</em> and without Dean’s tone and facial expressions to help Castiel gauge the conversation, the minefield is dense. </p><p>Scratching his chin, Castiel carefully considers what to say next. His instincts tell him that Dean’s last question is deflective humor more than anything else, so he goes with that, opting not to overthink it. </p><p>
  <em> Castiel: Wet, mostly, though I’ve been too busy to get in it this week.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: Your pool and I have that in common </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: Shit, that was really forward… sorry </em>
</p><p>Mouth going bone dry, Castiel finds himself glancing around his office furtively, as if he’s doing something dirty (<em>is he?)</em> and about to be caught and punished at any moment. Of all the things he expected from his next contact with Dean, this was nowhere near the top of his list.</p><p>
  <em> Castiel: Is that… a flirtation?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: A really terrible one, don’t hold it against me.  </em>
</p><p>Before Castiel can reply, Dean’s typing again and changing the subject. Reluctantly, Castiel lets him, though the unexpected throb of his groin at the mere thought of <em> Dean </em> and the word <em> wet </em> in the same context <em> strongly </em> resents his inability to better seize the opportunity. </p><p>
  <em> Dean: anyway, talk to me, Cas. Tell me something, whatever you feel like. You eating dinner right now? </em>
</p><p>And that’s how Castiel comes to be texting Dean Winchester the intimate, boring details of his day. He abandons the work he was previously hyper-focused on, leaving papers messily askew on his desk while he retires downstairs. Barely remembering to lock his office, Castiel stays glued to his phone’s screen as he rides the elevator, enters his place, and gets his tupperware-packed dinner into the microwave. He eats outside with his feet up on one of the chairs and a generously poured glass of whiskey in front of him, exchanging messages all the while. Surprisingly, it feels <em> almost </em>like Dean is there.</p><p>While Castiel retains his reservations with texting, Dean is an excellent conversationalist, and since they’re typing, any delays or silences don’t translate as awkward at all. They swap mutual rundowns of their days, compare dinners (hilariously similar, down to the whiskey), and before Castiel knows it, the world is fully dark outside and it’s long past his bedtime. Despite that, Castiel doesn’t feel tired at all—in fact, he feels energized, happy, and hopeful. </p><p>He continues his conversation with Dean all the way through flossing and brushing his teeth, changing into pajamas, and snuggling down into bed. If Dean didn’t eventually mention that he was doing the same, Castiel might never have worked up the courage (or interest) in admitting that he badly needs to sleep. </p><p>
  <em> Dean: so… guess I should let you go, huh? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel: i am the boss, technically i can do whatever I want. However, i do have a meeting early tomorrow morning with Charlie to discuss her thoughts on charitable contributions. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: you know i still hate you for pulling that shit with her, right? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel: i’m sure there are a great many things you could rightfully hate me for. In this case, I think we both know that Charlie came out on top. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: alright, now i hate you for making it so hard to hate you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel: you’ve discovered my plan… ensnare you with lukewarm mediocrity </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: well, it’s not NOT working, dick.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel: ;-) (i am learning emojis) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: wow. Impressive, boomer. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Castiel: I don’t understand that reference </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dean: night cas ;) this was pretty okay. </em>
</p><p>As Castiel’s phone screen goes dark and he stares up at the ceiling, he can’t help but feel an immense sense of satisfaction warming his body. </p><p><em> Pretty okay, </em> he repeats, the smile on his face now making his cheeks downright sore. <em> Pretty okay.  </em></p><p>Castiel will take that. </p><p>***</p><p>Despite how well things went the night before, Castiel doesn’t really think he’ll hear from Dean again so soon. In fact, as he drags himself out of bed, exhausted and with <em> zero </em> regrets about why, he assumes it’ll be up to him to initiate their next contact. Castiel can do that, no problem. He just… needs to be sure to go about things the <em> right </em>way and not wind up chasing Dean off. Not after they’ve made so much progress.</p><p>Thinking about Dean first thing in the morning is nothing new to Castiel—he’s been doing that since the first day after the one they met. Before he’s even fully awake, Dean is at the forefront of Castiel’s mind, always. His beautiful face, and all the expressions he makes—even the angry ones—Castiel treasures them all. His confidence, and the way he carries himself, dancing like no one is watching even when he knows they are. Castiel thinks about Dean’s eyes looking back into his own as he brushes his teeth, thinks about Dean licking his lips and leaning in, their multi-thwarted near-kiss. </p><p>At breakfast, Castiel flashes back to Dean’s delicious scent filling his nostrils as he sniffs the poor substitute of flaky apple strudel pastry he requested Benny bake for him. Not that the pastry is subpar, far from it—just that apparently, Castiel is a masochist. </p><p>It’s as he’s getting onto the elevator a short while later that his phone buzzes in his pocket and Castiel absently pulls it out with an accompanying sigh. He’s still daydreaming about the way Dean might feel in his arms while expecting to see a message from Crowley or Rowena or even Claire, since she spent the night in Bel-Air. </p><p>
  <em> Dean: Morning, sunshine.  </em>
</p><p>Startled, Castiel nearly drops his phone <em> and </em> the mug of coffee he’s carrying. His heart skips a beat and he’s <em> glad </em>he dabbed on blockers—this feels almost too good to be true.</p><p>But it’s not, and it’s just the beginning.</p><p>Over the next week, Castiel’s phone might as well be glued to his hand. He and Dean text increasingly often, until rarely does half a day go by when one of them hasn’t messaged the other. It’s to the detriment of Castiel’s attention span and his workload, but he can hardly bring himself to care. A lot of what he does for Novak Corp is delegatable (Castiel simply enjoys being involved and overseeing things himself), so it’s not too difficult to correct that problem, but it’s out of character enough that people begin to take notice. </p><p>As such, Castiel takes flack from everyone, starting with Zachariah and ending with Crowley. Castiel does his best to reassure and appease, but at the end of the day, <em> he </em> is the boss and none of them have any say in what he chooses to do with his time. For his part, Castiel has no regrets. He’s lived his whole life doing the <em> right </em> thing, the <em> smart </em> thing, the <em> expected </em>thing. Dean is none of that, not in the way Castiel thought a True Mate would be, but Dean feels worth every second Castiel spends getting to know him.</p><p>Dare he say—he and Dean seem to be making real progress. Enough that Castiel feels certain he would actually be welcomed, should he show up on Dean’s doorstep. And yet, he doesn’t go. He waits, and lets Dean set the pace, and it all seems worth it when late one Wednesday night, Dean calls him on the phone. </p><p>They’ve been texting during the day as usual, and Castiel is sprawled out on a lounge chair by the pool, just enjoying the warm early-summer night air. There’s a frozen drink by his side, the fairy lights are twinkling above his head, and Claire is splashing around happily in the water. If Castiel were a bold man, he’d say that if Dean were here in person, this evening would be the very picture of perfection.</p><p>His phone vibrates in his hand, and Castiel stares down at in disbelief when he sees the name “Dean” lighting up his caller ID. Dean has never called before, only texted. He swipes the call through.</p><p>“Hello, Dean.” </p><p>It’s the step forward Castiel has been waiting for but didn’t know he needed, and their subsequent conversation ends up being the highlight of his entire week. Just like with texting, their banter flows easily, and Castiel finds that he enjoys the way Dean pokes fun at him, the way he challenges his usual thoughts and assumptions, the way he makes Castiel <em> think </em>and question himself. </p><p>And it’s so much better than text—hearing the nuance of Dean’s voice changes everything, and Castiel treasures it, even when he’s being schooled. Until Dean came along, Castiel hadn’t realized how much everyone around him simply repeats what they think he wants to hear, how much they cater to his ego and not to the truth. </p><p>Dean never does that. </p><p>After a while, Claire sloshes out of the water and heads off to bed, dropping a kiss to Castiel’s cheek and flashing him a knowing wink as she goes. She spoils her sweet behavior by dipping back over to scream, “HI DEAN!” obnoxiously into the phone’s speaker before Castiel has time to yank it away, but Castiel can hardly be so much as irritated when Dean laughs heartily in response.</p><p>Once Claire is gone, Castiel takes that as his cue to retire, too. As Dean rambles about some customer who insisted they ordered a pink paint job when they filled out paperwork denoting purple, Castiel quietly locks his bedroom door, strips down to his underwear, and slides into bed in the dark. Somehow, Dean’s presence feels more real to him that way, and he even works up the nerve to tell him so.</p><p>Dean laughs again, but it’s not mocking—it’s dark and interested, and has Castiel clutching desperately at his phone, hoping for more.</p><p>That night, with Dean in his ear, his flirty tone unmistakable, they veer as close as they ever have to something naughty and bordering on inappropriate, and Castiel thrills. His blood pumps hot in his veins at just the <em> idea </em> that he doesn’t repulse Dean in that way, that Dean might even consider wanting to be with him like that. Castiel’s under no delusions about his own desires—he wants Dean, wants him very badly, but he can and will wait until Dean is <em> sure.  </em></p><p>So he doesn’t take the bait, no matter how tantalizingly Dean dangles it.</p><p>When Castiel persistently humors him but doesn’t escalate his teasing, Dean eventually settles down, which Castiel is decidedly disappointed about but also understands. He can’t say that if he was in Dean’s position he’d have the nerve to hop out on that limb just yet, either. It excites him, though, makes him shiver in imagining what things might be like when they eventually allow themselves to be together in the same room. </p><p>Once again, Dean ends their nightly conversation with an acknowledgment that the phone contact is easier for him. That he feels more in control, like his thoughts and inclinations towards Castiel are more <em> real </em> without the influence of the hormones. And yet, he also drops yet another invitation for Castiel to come and see him in person. Alone in his bed with his hand decidedly <em> not </em>inching down into his boxers, Castiel decides that it might just be time to take him up on that.</p><p>As fate would have it, an opportunity soon arises that neither of them expected. Or at least, expected Castiel to jump on, anyway. </p><p>On Saturday morning, Castiel has to spend a few hours in his office, wrapping up some work items he ignored in favor of conversing with Dean again the night before. Their evening texting sessions evolving into voice chats has quickly become a thing, and three nights in a row now they’ve stayed on the phone until they were both half-asleep in bed. </p><p>It’s a lot to contend with, and Castiel still can’t be sure that he and Dean are completely on the same page. Regardless, he can’t remember ever being this happy, this inspired to simply get up out of bed in the morning. It’s not that Castiel hasn’t enjoyed his life to this point, not that he hasn’t felt joy and fulfillment—he has, in spades. It’s just that perhaps he hasn’t realized that there was something missing. That he really and truly <em> wanted </em>someone to share his days with, in a different way than anyone else, even Claire, provides.</p><p>Castiel lasts two hours of alternately signing papers, reviewing meeting minutes, and staring dreamily out his windows before he throws in the towel. He emails Zachariah to finish up the duties he’s decided to shirk, and heads back downstairs to check his phone and see what Dean is up to this morning. Leaving his phone behind was intentional—at this point, Castiel has accepted that the man is a distraction he simply doesn’t have the willpower to turn down. </p><p>As he enters his apartment from the elevator vestibule, Claire comes shuffling blearily out from her bedroom, fists rubbing her eyes, hair wild and tangled atop her head. She’s clad in just a t-shirt and designer boxer-briefs that look suspiciously familiar. </p><p>“Why are you wearing my underwear?” Castiel asks suspiciously, leaning on the island counter as Claire fixes herself cereal with her eyes half-closed. “There’s quiche in the fridge.” </p><p>“Ew,” Claire responds, shoveling a spoonful of Cocoa Puffs into her mouth and letting milk dribble down her chin. “To both of those things.” She juts out her hip, flashing the designer label on the band of her shorts Castiel’s way. “Alright, so one of yours ended up in my drawer a couple weeks back and, what can I say? They looked comfy as hell. Boys get all the good clothes. Anyway, I made Rowena order me some. So these are mine,” she finishes smugly. </p><p>Castiel blinks. “They’re two hundred and fifty dollars for a three-pack,” he says, while Claire just stares back at him like he’s nuts.</p><p>“So what? You have like nine pairs. Oh, is this one of those things that’s only okay when you do it?” </p><p>“What? No!” Castiel retorts defensively. “That—I’ve never said—I just wasn’t under the impression you cared for things like that. Your wardrobe is mostly from Target.” </p><p>Dropping her bowl onto the counter, Claire’s brow knits together and her head tips to the side as she considers Castiel’s words. “My favorite leather jacket is Alexander Mcqueen,” she tells him.</p><p>“I… don’t know what that means.” </p><p>“It means it cost you the better part of six grand,” Claire explains. </p><p>“Oh,” Castiel says weakly, somewhat regretting even starting this conversation. Claire’s right, his wardrobe isn’t exactly from Goodwill, and it’s not as if they can’t afford it. It’s not like he even cares—Claire can purchase whatever clothing she wants, as far as Castiel’s concerned. It’s just—confusing, in a way.</p><p>“What’s up with you?” his niece prods, digging into her cereal once again, but only after leaning across the island to poke the edge of her spoon into the fleshy part of Castiel’s forearm. When she gets close, Castiel can easily scent her amusement but also her curiosity, and he decides to be frank.</p><p>He winces. “Truth?” he asks, and Claire raises her eyebrows, motioning back to him like, <em> duh, get on with it, </em> as she slides off of the counter<em>. </em>He does, slumping down onto one of the bar stools with a sigh and playing with a shiny apple he pulls from the fruit bowl. “I’ve just… been reconsidering some things, lately. Things that I may have previously taken for granted. And I’m finding out that very little is either entirely black or entirely white. All of these… neat little boxes where I’ve kept so many of my thoughts and beliefs, I guess—well, for lack of a better descriptor, many have come spilling out.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Claire says sagely, nodding her head along with him before breaking into a sly smile. “So, Dean is good for you, is what you’re saying.”</p><p>Twisting back and forth on his stool like a fidgeting child, Castiel can’t quite suppress the uptick of his own lips. “Dean does make me question a great many things,” he admits, before going quiet for a moment. “Claire,” he continues, spinning the apple like a top. “How do you reconcile our lives and the amount of money we have with—with what you do?” </p><p>Claire chews her food for a moment, pushing the spoon around in her bowl before swallowing and looking Castiel in the eye. “I don’t,” she says with a shrug. “It’s just the way things are. Other people are born with shittier hands, that’s just the way things are for them. All either of us can do is use what we <em> do </em>have to make things better, whether that’s our minds or our bodies or our money, whether it’s for ourselves or for somebody else.” </p><p>The morning light streaming through the wall of glass hits Claire from behind, turning her messy blonde hair almost into a halo, and Castiel thinks that’s very apt. An answer like that—it ashames Castiel to be faced so bluntly with how terribly he’s underestimated his niece. “That was incredibly thoughtful and wise,” he manages to reply, but Claire just rolls her eyes. “I mean it, Claire,” Castiel persists, reaching out and placing a hand on her arm, which she reluctantly allows. “I’m—I’m very proud of you. I feel as if I’m missing huge pieces of who you are and how you’ve become such a kind and competent young lady with me for a role model—or worse, your Nana Naomi—but, Claire, I’d like to learn.”</p><p>This time, Claire doesn’t brush him off. She places her bowl in the sink, sucks her teeth and crosses her arms as she turns to face him. Narrowing her eyes, Claire smirks and it occurs to Castiel that he should always assume his niece will take him literally—always remember that she will insist he put his money where his mouth is. <em> Not </em>literally, in that case, although throwing money at whatever she’s scheming about would almost certainly be easier. </p><p>“Alright,” she says thoughtfully. “Wanna go to a party?” </p><p>***</p><p>The <em> “party” </em>Claire is referring to turns out to be anything but that. It’s actually a protest—or rather, the continuation of several weeks of ongoing demonstrations all over Los Angeles—and Castiel is terrified. </p><p><em> Yes, </em> he agrees with the protests in theory, or at least the movements behind them. <em> Yes, </em>he knows both Dean and Claire have been intimately involved in not only marching, but also advocating and working hand-in-hand with the actual organizers to rally for and demand actual, tangible change. He knows about the petitions and Dean’s murals and the protest signs that are creating an increasingly large footprint in Claire’s suite. He knows how strongly they both feel about the cause—about social justice and championing equality as a whole. </p><p>He <em> knows.  </em></p><p>But Castiel also isn’t sure he can entirely get behind this whole “Defund the Police”, “us against them” mentality. As much as he’s been learning about grey areas, he’s <em> sure </em>that must apply here, too, where everyone is so determined to insist that it doesn’t. </p><p>Which isn’t to say <em> anything </em> of how much the idea of an escalated protest—<em>a riot—</em>is nothing Castiel wants to be anywhere near. Nothing he wants those he <em> cares </em>about anywhere near, either. He’s seen the pictures of alphas and omegas alike with facial injuries from the rubber bullets and red eyes from tear gas, seen the recordings of seemingly innocent protestors being tackled to the ground, beaten and even knocked unconscious. </p><p>Sure, that seems cut and dry “all cops are bad” fodder, but in reality—isn’t there nuance? Doesn’t there <em> have </em> to be? Castiel can’t say he likes the scoffing dismissal he gets from either Claire or Dean when he voices those thoughts, but none of this is <em> his </em>experience. His own dealings with L.A.P.D. have been nothing but professional, empathetic even. </p><p>In fact, Castiel was caught pushing the limits of the Gracela X prototype several years ago, going a speed that should have landed him in <em> jail, </em>never mind with a ticket. But after seeing his license, the cop had laughed, understood what he was doing, and let Castiel off with a warning. He’s also had his share of stalkers, had to call the police out to remove unruly terminated employees and trespassers alike from Novak Corp’s building. Hell, for a full week last year the West L.A. Police dedicated a detail to sitting outside Castiel’s home in Bel-Air, just to keep an eye on his parents after Castiel received some vaguely threatening letters. </p><p>So Castiel can’t help but feel conflicted, like this is all being boiled down a <em> bit </em> too simply for his liking. Between that and seeing Claire gather into a duffle what amounts to <em> riot gear—</em>gas masks, knee pads, ponchos, jugs of milk and water, plus all sorts of first-aid supplies—Castiel struggles to keep a lid on it. The corner of her mouth hasn’t even fully healed from the last time she jumped into the middle of one of these things, and his inner alpha already wants to rip apart anyone who even looks at her (or Dean) sideways. </p><p>It all feels like a recipe for disaster—like it’s <em> inevitable </em> that the cops will have to go on the defensive, with rightly frustrated protestors combining with protective alphas, not to mention the civilian factor. Castiel’s entirely certain he’s never wanted to do anything less, and yet, he <em> did </em>offer. </p><p>So later that afternoon, when Claire drags him into his bedroom suite and dresses him, Castiel goes without complaint. When she selects heavy, dark jeans and a plain black long-sleeved t-shirt despite the warm day outside, Castiel lets her. When she ties a black and white bandana across his face and then tugs it down around his neck, “until you need it,” Castiel doesn’t say one word about it.  </p><p>“Up to you if you wanna wear blockers,” Claire says, biting her thumbnail as she assesses his look. “Definitely grab your sunglasses, though. They help hide your identity and keep surprise pepper spray out of your eyes. What?” she challenges, when Castiel raises an eyebrow. </p><p>“I don’t imagine I’ll have an issue with the police,” Castiel demurs quietly, smoothing his clothing in the mirror. </p><p>Claire shrugs. “Hard to tell. I’ve seen some alphas—anti-protestors, usually—get advanced warning to clear out before the thin blue line charges at the rest of us, but I’ve also seen them get taken down just on an accusation of smelling funny. It’s happened to Kaia, but she’s brown. Cops <em> love </em> to use pheromones against us—they say they feel threatened because someone smelled ‘aggressive’ and <em> boom, </em>perfect defense. Prove they didn’t.’”</p><p>Making a noncommittal noise, Castiel doesn’t admit out loud that he thinks that line of thought sounds perfectly reasonable. Perhaps not rubber-bullet-reasonable, but he’s not one to judge. Being a police officer can’t be easy. His scent gives him away, though, and Claire rolls her eyes.</p><p>“You’ll see, old man,” she warns him, tossing a pair of barely-worn black sneakers his way, which Castiel catches and dons without a word. “I mean, maybe. This is Kaia’s brainchild and she’s been really loud about wanting it to be particularly ally-focused. So it should be pretty low-key and welcoming.” Claire shrugs. “Just can’t account for what the cops might do.” </p><p>He skips the blockers.</p><p>They walk. The protest is being held over by City Hall, which is maybe a mile and a half from Novak Corp’s headquarters. Interestingly, it’s slightly less than that from Dean’s shop, and Castiel knows from texting that the man is also headed there as they speak. Since the day is moving into later afternoon/early evening now, the sun is lower in the sky and there’s plenty of shade between the buildings. Despite the temperature hovering in the mid-seventies and just <em> slightly </em>too warm for long clothing, Castiel’s chosen outfit isn’t entirely unbearable. </p><p>Claire’s leather jacket, on the other hand, looks like a terribly stuffy choice. And if the fact that Castiel knows what it cost factors into that assessment, so sue him. He keeps his thoughts to himself as they make their way down the city streets, settling for carrying a few of Claire’s signs under his arm. Even as they get closer and other protestors begin to filter in off of side streets and such, Castiel’s still having trouble getting into the spirit of things. </p><p>He <em> should </em> be focused on Claire, at least. On the protest information she’s giving him, behavior expectations, and especially the “what ifs” and warnings, but Castiel’s head has been distracted and full for days now. It’s not a simple thing for him to turn off his interest and attraction towards Dean, and after so many intimate chats to know that they’re about to be in the <em> same </em> place at the <em> same </em> time—Castiel thinks he’s entitled to be just a <em> little </em>bit excited, regardless of the circumstances.</p><p>“Ew,” Claire remarks, waving her hand in front of her nose and stepping emphatically towards the other side of the sidewalk as they walk. “Can you not, like, drool over Dean that way when I’m standing right beside you?”</p><p>Maybe he should have worn the blockers. </p><p>“Apologies,” Castiel mutters. “This is new for me, you know that.” </p><p>“Uh huh,” Claire replies, unimpressed. She adjusts her duffle on her shoulder, which Castiel again (unsuccessfully) attempts to procure and carry. “Listen, you do you do,” she continues. “But I’m gonna tell you right now—Dean’s <em> really </em>excited you’re coming with today. So don’t go and fuck it up by being… you know, you.” </p><p>“So should I be myself or not?” Castiel bites back a smile at Claire’s obvious exasperation and she heaves a huge sigh. </p><p>“You <em> know </em> what I mean, Uncle Cas. He cares as much about this movement as I do, it’s not a joke to him. It’s not a <em> date </em>either. And honestly,” Claire abruptly stops walking a few paces in front of him and whirls around, face hard. “If that’s all you’re here for, then you should go home.” </p><p>Castiel balks, hand flying to his chest. “Claire,” he says sharply. “First of all, don’t speak to me like that.” Claire just crosses her arms over her chest and looks down her nose at him as if Castiel isn’t her elder and her guardian. He pushes on, <em> only </em> because she’s not speaking completely out of turn and he knows it. “Your concern is both noted and unnecessary. I—I <em> am </em>excited to see Dean, but I’m here for the right reasons. I promise you. He is… a bonus.” So long as the night doesn’t end with any of them in an ambulance or police custody, that’s the truth.</p><p>Claire doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she nods and pivots on her heel anyway. Trailing behind, Castiel does his best to keep his mind on what they’re walking into, and not on whether Dean will be glad to see him, or whether later he might be allowed to end the night with a hug.</p><p>Just beyond Grand Central Market, it happens. Castiel feels Dean long before he sees him—a static charge in the atmosphere cropping up suddenly, like when a lightning bolt strikes dangerously close by. The air feels thick, almost, and the hair on Castiel’s arms and at the nape of his neck stands up on end. Around him, the world keeps turning, people continue milling about as if nothing is happening—for them, that’s probably true.  </p><p>For Castiel, he’s nearly having a religious experience—the sun might as well be shining out of Dean’s ass when he steps forward and out of a small crowd. For a moment, Castiel forgets to breathe. As soon as their eyes meet, Dean’s crinkle at the corners, and Castiel had <em> forgotten </em> just how intensely green his are. <em> So beautiful.  </em></p><p>“Hey, where are you—oh,” Claire says, following after him when she clocks Dean up ahead. Castiel hadn’t even realized he was moving, but the draw to be by Dean’s side is instinctual, automatic. He tries not to feel overly hopeful when it appears that Dean is experiencing the very same phenomenon (and more importantly, that he’s not fighting it). </p><p><em> This is still just biology, </em> Castiel reminds himself. <em> It doesn’t mean he’ll choose you. </em></p><p>As the warm June wind whips around them, opportune yet again, Castiel catches those first notes of apple and pastry layered with whiskey and leather, and <em> home... Mate. </em> He <em> tries </em>to be prepared for it this time, tries hard not to react. He’d managed it back in the boardroom the other day, but only because he put a qtip covered in Vicks up each nostril before daring to enter the room. The blockers he’d worn had been a courtesy for Dean—just in case he didn’t think to do the same. He hadn’t, if the reaction Dean had once inside Castiel’s own office was any indication. </p><p>Today, though—out in the open air, Castiel thought he’d be able to handle it, but Dean’s full-on scent nearly brings him to his knees. Embarrassed, Castiel covers his face and forces himself to stay rooted to one spot. To not spring forward and wrap Dean up in his arms, scent his neck deeply and wind fingers into his hair the way he <em> so </em>badly wants to do. </p><p>There’s a light touch to his elbow, and Castiel risks spreading his fingers apart just enough to peek through them, having begun to adjust to Dean’s scent in his nose and his presence in his space. He expects Claire but no—curious green eyes peer down at him from only inches away. </p><p>“You good?” Dean asks softly.</p><p>“No,” Castiel confesses breathily. “This is—it’s very difficult to keep my hands to myself.”</p><p>“Well,” Dean says, an amused smile gracing his face. “For what it’s worth, it means a lot to me that you are.” He pauses to scratch at the back of his neck, cheeks coloring slightly pink. “It’s, uh, not all that easy for me, either. So.”</p><p><em> In for five, out for five. </em> Castiel fills his lungs and releases the breath with intention, and although the intense and demanding essence of <em> Dean </em> is still <em> surrounding </em> him, the initial claws of his hormone-driven instincts begin to release. Make no mistake—his veins are full of fire and his lower brain is still very interested in convincing the rest of him that mating Dean is the <em> only </em>thing he should be doing right now, but Castiel’s rational thought is slowly coming back online. </p><p>After another minute or two, he feels almost normal. Definitely able to form full sentences. Almost probably not going to embarrass himself with the next random shift in the wind. Castiel nods to himself and looks up to find Dean biting his lower lip and staring pointedly at the sky. <em> At least he’s not the only one.  </em></p><p>“I can leave,” Castiel offers. “I only wanted to see and support you and Claire. But this is—I never intended to make this event uncomfortable for you.” </p><p>A million things war over Dean’s face as Castiel watches with what he is sure reads as open fascination. He can practically <em> see </em>the internal struggle play out in Dean’s expressions, in the dark shadows that flit behind Dean’s eyes, there and gone in an instant. </p><p>What Dean wants in his mind is <em> less </em>at war with his body today than the last time they were together. Castiel doesn’t need Dean to say it to know how much Dean wrestles with that concept. Nothing about this situation is easy for Dean.</p><p>“You’re angry,” Castiel observes, not knowing what else to do.</p><p>“Not at you,” Dean replies quickly, growling a little to himself and rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s just—fuck.” He plants his hands on his hips, drops his head, and shakes it. “Yes, I am angry. Cas, nothing about our lives is real. Everything that we've done, everything that we are is because of this—this <em> True Mates </em> thing. You, me, we were always going to end up here. Our choices weren’t anything but cosmic nudges meant to lead us to each other, or that’s what my dad used to say. And the Mates stuff <em> is </em>true, so why wouldn’t that be, too? Maybe you can stick your head back in the sand, maybe you can pretend that we actually have any kind of choice in this. But I can't.”</p><p>There’s a pause where Dean actually sniffles and his eyes go a little bright, but he turns away, clearly intent on leaving Castiel in the dust. </p><p>“Dean,” Castiel calls after him, because he can’t, he <em> can’t </em> watch him walk away again. Not like this, when they were so— “You want to know what about all this is real? <em> We are,</em>” Castiel says with emphasis, striding forward to take Dean’s hand, wanted or not. </p><p>He keeps talking. “Even if some of the things we’ve done were cosmic machinations, how would we describe it all? We'd call it ‘life.’ Because that's precisely what life is. It's an obstacle course, and maybe fate designed the obstacles, but we ran our <em> own </em> race. We made our own moves. And <em> both </em> of us have done well with that. The fact that you <em> can </em> choose to walk away right now shows that I’m right. And you can do that, I won’t stop you again. But you—<em>you, </em>Dean. You can choose to stay, too.” </p><p>Steeling his gaze and holding Dean’s own without flinching, Castiel prepares himself for the worst and hopes—<em>prays</em>—for the best. In front of him, Dean’s eyes search his face, for what, Castiel doesn’t know. </p><p>“It’s very clear that <em> no </em>one tells you what you can and cannot do. Not your father, not society, not fate. You are the master of your own destiny, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says.</p><p>“Jesus, Cas,” Dean replies finally, huffing a little laugh and averting his eyes down to their shoes. He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “That’s the corniest fuckin’ thing anyone’s ever said to me.” </p><p>But that sort-of insult doesn’t matter to Castiel in the least, because Dean <em> doesn’t </em>walk away, and he doesn’t let go of his hand. </p><p>***</p><p>The protest is actually a march, and it’s late to begin. In the meantime, Castiel, Dean, and Claire mill around, meeting up with a pair of siblings Castiel is introduced to as Max and Alicia Banes. Both brown-skinned omegas, they each look more on edge than even Claire, despite the fairly chill and almost party-like atmosphere the gathering otherwise has going. Alicia, in particular, smells particularly worried, and Dean pulls Castiel aside to explain that the punch Claire took to her mouth a few weeks ago was caught while helping Max pull an unconscious Alicia out of a dogpile in the street. </p><p>“I shoulda been there,” Dean says darkly, brow furrowing as he glances over at his friend. Following Dean’s gaze, Castiel takes another look at Alicia and notices a still-healing stretch of stitches right at her hairline. His stomach lurches. </p><p>“What happened that she was attacked?” he asks quietly.</p><p>Dean pulls away from him a little then, staring down at Castiel strangely. “Nothing,” he says plainly. “She was just standing in the street and they wanted us to disperse. The protest was legal, no one acted up, they just...” he trails off and shrugs. “Par for the course. They hate us. They don’t want to be held accountable, Cas.”  </p><p>Just then, Claire appears at Castiel’s side, offering him a bottle of water and saving him from having to formulate a reply to Dean. “Don’t dehydrate,” she says sunnily. </p><p>Castiel accepts, tapping the lid against her arm before unscrewing it. “Where is Kaia? I thought you said she would be here?” </p><p>In response, Claire just grins and points up at a makeshift podium—basically an upside-down crate, a mic, and some speakers from somebody’s home entertainment system—where a darker-skinned girl with thick, wavy black hair is struggling to balance without falling over. </p><p>It doesn’t escape Castiel’s notice that there are already a line of police officers gathering less than ten yards away, the majority of them dressed like paramilitary operatives. Excessive doesn’t begin to cover it—there hasn’t been anything but pleasant conversation and peaceful assembly since he arrived. </p><p>Somewhere in the back of his mind, busy as it is tonight, Castiel begins to wonder if this is yet another thing he’s been patently wrong about. He’s not <em> entirely </em>ready to jump on that train yet, but just the intimidating show of force he’s watching is enough to make Castiel shiver despite the warm Southern California air. The fact that they’re lined up at Kaia’s back, facing the demonstrating crowd, it’s—well, it’s unnerving, is what it is.</p><p>Still, Castiel swallows his concerns and does as Claire tells him, which is to follow Kaia’s lead. And Max and Alicia, if they ask something from him, too. Kaia gives an amazing speech, one that touches on everything from historical oppression of both Black people and Omegas, to current events. She skillfully dismantles the concept of reverse racism while unpacking white supremacy, whitewashed black history, alpha superiority, and the origins of the police force in a way that even a kindergartener would have no trouble following. Subsequently, Castiel begins to feel somewhat ashamed of his own beliefs. </p><p>As they listen, Kaia begins listing the names of Black people and Omegas killed at the hands of police, the vast majority of whom have still seen <em> no </em> justice, whose killers <em> still </em> patrol the very streets they died on today. Castiel tries not to visibly react to the shockingly long list, but hearing all of those names read in succession shakes him to his core. Up on her crate, Kaia gently but firmly reminds the crowd that if those with privilege who don’t experience this type of targeted oppression—who don’t fear for their lives when blue lights appear in their rearview mirrors, who live in peaceful oblivion to the realities that so many face—<em>refuse </em>to listen, nothing will change.</p><p>“We will not be silent,” she proclaims into the mic, her hand resting on the shoulder of a tall alpha next to her for stability. </p><p>The crowd roars back its approval, and Castiel drops Dean’s hand to clap enthusiastically. </p><p>“We will not allow our brothers and sisters to be forgotten, to be overlooked by a justice system that has declared it doesn’t care about them, about us! All lives won’t matter until Black lives do. Until Omega lives do. This is a <em> movement, </em> not a trend, and we are not going <em> any </em>where.” </p><p>The crowd gets loud again, and Kaia waits until the yelling subsides before continuing. “Well, today we <em> are </em> going to City Hall to tell them what we think about all this, and to demand justice and change. She begins to list those demands: “Demilitarize the police. Defund weaponized racism and gender discrimination. Bring justice for Omegas who have been victimized and ignored. Whose rape kits have been ‘lost.’ Justice for those abused and murdered at the hands of our police. Fire the perpetrators, lock them up! We demand <em> better </em>than this—for us, for our children. </p><p>“Fund our schools, fund our youth programs. Fund our shelters and our food pantries. Fund our <em> resources, </em>our social workers, our detox centers, our free medical clinics. We deserve better, and today, we are demanding it!” </p><p>Along with the rest of the crowd, Castiel finds himself cheering at the top of his lungs and clapping before Kaia’s feet even touch the ground. When he looks over, Claire’s eyes are misty and Dean’s teeth are firmly sunk into the inside of his cheek.</p><p>“Fuck right,” Dean murmurs, scooping up Castiel’s hand once again just as soon as he’s done applauding. While that’s surprising, Castiel’s grateful. He’s a bit shaken, and if he is, he can only imagine how Dean and Claire must feel. </p><p>On impulse, Castiel reaches out and pulls Claire into a tight hug. To his great awe and appreciation, she goes easily, tucking her face into his shoulder and her nose against his neck for a long moment. That brings up a <em> lot </em> more emotion than Castiel anticipated, but when Claire’s own pheromones mellow and calm after scenting him, it slams Castiel <em> right </em>back to the four-year-old little girl who would sniff him in grief over losing her father. </p><p>He’s powerless against a memory like that, especially at the reminder of how terrible he was at being a substitute for Jimmy in Claire’s life at first. Cold, focused, money-driven—Castiel <em> loved </em>Claire, but had no idea how to parent her, no idea how to interact with a four-year-old girl at all. It’s why his parents had partial custody, even Jimmy knew he was hopeless.</p><p>Shortly after his brother passed away, Claire took to climbing into Castiel’s lap and showing up in his bed almost constantly. She was undeterred by his stiff, awkward demeanor, only seeking comfort the way children are wont to do. But Castiel hardly understood, never mind knew how to respond. </p><p>“I’m not your father,” he would say, as gently as possible, because he was an idiot and thought it was important that she remember that. Thankfully, little Claire ignored him, and would only snuggle deeper. </p><p>“You smell like him,” was all she would ever reply, her own fear and sorrow lessening the longer she stayed curled in his arms. </p><p>He and Claire have come so far, and Castiel owes her so much more than he could ever think to repay. Perhaps Dean does too. After all, it’s Claire that has kept him human, made him soft in a world where he was all too determined to be hard. </p><p>The waves of people begin moving towards City Hall, down South Main Street. This demonstration has a permit—according to Claire, Kaia made sure to dot all of her i’s and cross her t’s—and still there are tons and tons of officers—five or more per group, spaced every ten feet or so all the way down the street. Hands on their weapons and face shields locked, they look like they genuinely believe they’re in some kind of danger. </p><p>It’s bizarre—the actual protest group is more “PTA” than “violent thug” by a <em> long </em> mile. There are elderly folks and even <em> kids </em>here, for Pete’s sake, some so young they haven't even presented yet. Castiel finds himself watching the cops warily even as the determined crowd marches on, chanting and singing and generally refusing to be intimidated. </p><p>The smells <em> are </em> staggering in both their variety and intensity. The mix of excitement and determination, of fear and anxiety, of <em> anger </em> and sadness. Used to the overly-sanitized conditions of Novak Corp, where the press of a button will ventilate a room and fill it with deodorizing chemicals, Castiel finds himself somewhat overwhelmed. Not necessarily in a bad way, though. He just feels—<em>alive.  </em></p><p>Beside him, Dean is all of those things and more, hoisting Claire’s “Black Omega Lives Matter” sign high. On his right, Claire has one armed looped through Kaia’s, and each of them have a sign of their own in their free hands. In front of their foursome, Alicia and Max lead the chants for them and everyone in their immediately vicinity, and Castiel is suddenly <em> fiercely </em>glad that he came. </p><p>Whatever is between him and Dean gets shoved far, far to the backburner. </p><p>The march is high-spirited, enthusiastic, but uneventful. It feels like a casual stroll. The entire crowd makes it all the way to City Hall without incident. Once there, several other speakers get up on Kaia’s crate to discuss a few of the specifics they’re petitioning for. By that time, the sun has sunk far into the horizon and the streetlights are beginning to come on. Some of the protestors naturally disperse, but others turn on music and begin dancing and singing in the street. </p><p>In retrospect, Castiel could never put his finger on exactly what happened, what it is that made the police snap, or if there was even anything at all. He supposes he’ll never really know.</p><p>What matters is that one minute he’s twirling Kaia under her arm while Claire and Dean laugh, and the next Alicia is screaming. </p><p><em>No, </em>he realizes, the whole <em>crowd </em>is screaming, and panicking, and conflicted—Alicia is simply the closest person to him, the first to get pepper sprayed right in her eyes. </p><p>It’s not Castiel’s proudest moment. He finds himself frozen, unable to make his feet work, unable to decide whether to flee or to stay and help. Max swoops in to help his sister, taking a baton to his ribs from an armored assailant for his efforts. </p><p>“<em>Cas! </em> Find Claire!"Dean hollers as he dives into the fray, doing his best to come to his friends’ aid. </p><p>Frantically, Castiel searches the churning crowd for his niece and Kaia’s faces—they were just here a second ago, <em> where—? </em> A shriek to his right has Castiel darting a glance over, only to find Kaia being scooped up around her middle by an officer as Claire struggles to hold onto her arms.</p><p>“No!” Castiel yells, darting forward but finding himself stopped short by a gloved hand to his chest and an imposing figure in his way.</p><p>“Sir,” the police officer the glove is attached to says, calm as can be. He lifts his plastic visor and leans in to sniff Castiel, nodding like he’s just confirmed a suspicion. “You’ll want to clear out of here. We’re about to deploy tear gas containers, but I was authorized to give people like yourself a heads up.” </p><p>“People like—” Castiel gapes in disbelief before baring his teeth and growling angrily. The police officer just looks mildly insulted. He doesn’t so much as reach for his weapon. “You’ve all made career-ending mistakes tonight,” Castiel snaps. “Do you have any idea who I am?” </p><p>The officer chuckles a little and shrugs. “I mean, you’re an alpha, and you’re—well, you’re not one of <em> them,” </em> he says easily, like <em> Castiel </em>is the idiot here.</p><p>“I’m Castiel Novak,” Castiel says, drawing up to his full height and bristling. </p><p>Again, the police officer laughs, canines flashing in the light from the lantern above them. “Sure, buddy,” he says, patting Castiel on the shoulder before turning his back and ambling away towards a clustered group of other cops waiting on the sidewalk. “And I’m Ellen DeGeneres.” He points vaguely towards the crowd of protestors crying and squabbling with police, inhumanly casual. “Hey, if any of these pieces of shit belong to you, get them back on their leashes and get ‘em out of here before I put ‘em down, capiche?”</p><p>Castiel sees <em> red, </em> and not only because the tear gas containers are dropping, the chemicals they spew burning his eyes. He’s inches away from doing something <em> very </em>stupid, and would have if it weren’t for the frantic screaming of his name somewhere behind him. As it is, Claire’s voice pierces through the dusky twilight like the headlights on his car.</p><p><em> “Uncle Cas!” </em> He’s turning around in a flash, his eye quickly finding where both Claire and Kaia are laid out face down on the pavement, hands zip-tied at their backs and a booted foot from two different officers each pressing between their shoulder blades. Castiel’s inner alpha has never been so close to flying out of control, but he recognizes the situation for what it is, recalls the way the other officer spoke to him, and <em> knows </em>he has to use his status to their advantage. </p><p>It nearly kills him not to rip out the throats of the two assholes standing on his niece and her girlfriend, but Castiel manages to hold it together long enough to get both of them released to his custody. He’s careful to note badge numbers, though—Castiel has no intention of letting what happened here tonight go unchecked. On the contrary. </p><p>“Sorry, Uncle Cas,” Claire pants as Castiel wraps an arm around each girl. </p><p>He hustles them out of the street and away from the majority of the unrelenting police-fueled violence. As soon as he deems it safe, he stops and yanks Claire into a suffocating hug, tugging Kaia in too, without hesitation.</p><p>“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he growls stiffly. “Nothing at all. You were brave and they were cowardly—I’m proud of you both. Terrified for you, but proud.” Leaning back and placing a hand on each of their shoulders, Castiel looks between them. “This is just the beginning,” he declares. “I promise you that. I’m only sorry I wasn’t here sooner, but you have me now.” </p><p>They’re interrupted by someone calling Castiel’s name yet again, and Dean appears out of the hazy smog like a walking miracle, even with an open cut trickling blood all down the right side of his face. </p><p>“Dean!” Castiel yells back, and without thinking, they both run headlong into each other’s arms. Dean hugs him fiercely, cupping a hand over the back of Castiel’s head, and Castiel <em> fights </em> the urge to sink his teeth into Dean’s neck, which is the <em> strangest </em>response to pure relief he’s ever had in his life. His eyes brim with unshed tears, but this is neither the time nor the place.</p><p>While Castiel would love nothing more than to stay wrapped up in Dean forever, they can’t just stand here. Groups of officers are on the move, and one of them is headed their way. </p><p>“We need to go,” Castiel says, pointing to draw his people’s attention, and the four of them swiftly take off together down the street. </p><p>At the first opportunity, Dean hustles them all off of the main drag and down a side alley. </p><p>“Shortcut,” he mutters, squeezing Castiel’s hand, which has ended up back in his own. </p><p>“Max and Alicia?” Claire questions anxiously, walking twice as fast on her shorter legs to catch up with Dean’s long strides. </p><p>“They’re safe,” Dean replies shortly. “Sam was running a street team below Circle Park, you know, trying to prevent unlawful detainments and giving out cards with a number for people to call if they did get held up. Anyway, they had a van and a first aid crew. Pretty sure Max’s ribs are broken,” Dean finishes grimly. </p><p>“We didn’t <em> do </em> anything,” Castiel voices, slightly out of breath and <em> knowing </em>he’s being a bit slow on the uptake here but—this is so beyond belief, beyond anything he ever could have imagined. He should have listened.</p><p>“I know,” Dean replies, squeezing his hand again. </p><p>“What do we do?” Castiel persists, feeling desperate. Claire sidles up to him and wraps an arm around his, even as they’re all still power walking as fast as they can and her other hand is clutched in Kaia’s. Castiel marvels at what a miracle she is—always so generous, so ready to offer support. </p><p>They make quite a haphazard little train, the four of them. It’s probably for the best that Claire’s signs and gear were lost—this getaway has been difficult enough with nothing to carry.</p><p>Dean swallows hard and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “We’ve been doing this for weeks, Cas. So, I dunno, guess we’re the wrong people to ask.”</p><p>“Don’t say that,” Kaia pipes up, brushing an unruly strand of hair from where the wind has whipped it across her face. “A lot of good has come from what we’ve done. At least now, the world is watching. People are seeing for the first time what it’s like to live the way we do. I meant what I said earlier—I’m not stopping.”</p><p>“Me either,” Claire says immediately. Castiel’s never smelled her so determined.</p><p>“No,” he agrees. “As you shouldn’t. But I do think it’s long past time you had some help from someone who’s sat on the sidelines for far too long.”</p><p>Dean glances down at him, raising his eyebrows in question. “You sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’, Cas?” </p><p>“Yes,” Castiel replies firmly. “I’m officially in the game.” </p><p>“You’ve changed,” Claire says, soft enough that Castiel isn’t sure she even meant for Dean or Kaia to hear it. </p><p>Their pace finally slows as Dean decides they’re not being followed. Castiel finds himself needing to give Claire some sort of… some reason, <em> something </em> for why it’s taken him so long to get here. When their footsteps echo off of the towering buildings surrounding them in the dark, Castiel has never felt so damn <em> small.  </em></p><p>“Yes, well, um… It’s become apparent that before, I was very self-assured. I was convinced I was on this righteous path. Now... I realize that there is no righteous path. It’s just people trying to do their best in a world where it’s far too easy to do your worst. And I—I’m done with the internal justifications. I’m done being the worst version of myself.”</p><p>Claire just grins, beaming up at him when Castiel dares to chance a look her way. </p><p>“Good,” she says simply. “Welcome to the party.” </p><p>“Welcome to the <em> team</em>,” Kaia corrects.</p><p>“Team Free Will,” Dean chimes in with a snort. “One work-in-progress alpha billionaire, two loudmouth omegas who don’t know the meaning of the word submit, and the brains of this outfit, an alpha chick who can’t stand on a crate without needing something to hold onto. Go us.” </p><p>“Go us,” Castiel echoes, exchanging a smile with Dean.</p><p>“That crate was very rickety,” Kaia complains. </p><p>“Fine. The brains of this outfit: an alpha who’s so powerful she needed her girlfriend’s dad to bail her out of police custody. Better?”</p><p>“Much.” </p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>BLM, police brutality, and social justice are not trends. They're not something to fetishize or use as a backdrop for entertainment. At the same time, I write what I know, I write what's important to me. I care deeply about drawing attention to these issues, about making real change, and I hope that you do, too. </p><p>Also, in case you didn't get the ref, here's an article about Kendrick Sampson, who played Max Banes, getting beaten with a baton at a <a href="https://telanganatoday.com/actor-kendrick-sampson-hit-by-rubber-bullets-at-george-floyd-protests">BLM protest in L.A.</a> </p><p>Please visit:<br/><a href="https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/">Black Lives Matter Carrd</a><br/><a href="https://https://justiceforbreonna.org/">Justice For Breonna</a>, click "Take Action" and follow all the steps.<br/><a href="https://www.change.org/p/justice-for-tony-mcdade">Justice for Tony McDade</a>, a black trans man killed by police in Tallahassee.<br/><a href="https://www.change.org/p/adams-county-district-attorney-justice-for-elijah-mcclain-33c92d09-8a18-4ef0-8ffb-4cd18e7f9878">Justice for Elijah McClain</a> a 23 year old Black Man brutally murdered by PD a year ago in Colorado.<br/><a href="https://dotherightthing.carrd.co/">Other BLM resources and links</a>, including some global ones and supporting black-owned businesses, + general anti-racism education.<br/><a href="https://issuesintheworld.carrd.co/">Other issues going on in the world</a> including Abolish ICE, register to vote (US), fighting climate change and helping the homeless. </p><p>AO3 disclaimer: I'm not affiliated with *any* of the directly or indirectly linked organizations or businesses, I'm not here to make a cent.</p><p>Next time: Castiel gets all up in Dean's personal space, Dean crosses a line and Castiel surprises him—again. Things [finally] get physical. Something breaks.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Feel Good Drag</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>“Wha?” Dean manages, his voice coming out rough, even to his own ears. He licks his lips because Castiel won’t kiss them, though he certainly watches Dean do so with interest. Cas’ hands have found their way to Dean’s hips, and their bodies sway and move together, almost on instinct, as Cas continues talking.</i>
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  <i>Ugh, talking. Dean hates it.</i>
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          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>El*n Musk is dead to me, stan Castiel Novak instead, the superior billionaire. </p><p>Chapter warnings: they get it on. Top!Cas, but there is discussion about him being willing to bottom. Unprotected anal.</p><p>Thank you all for not abandoning me over the last chapter, I really appreciate the comments and support. You rule. Thanks to @coinofstone and at @thetwistedwillow for editing this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sliding door to the minivan that pulls up beside their motley crew somewhere between Third and Fourth Street slams shut behind Claire and Kaia with an uncomfortable screech. The sound makes Castiel wince, but Dean’s too busy scanning their surroundings for trouble to be bothered. </p><p>From outside the vehicle, Dean watches as Castiel touches the tips of his fingers to the glass and raises his voice so that Claire can hear him. “Be safe. Call me if you need anything else.” Claire’s own hand mimics his motion on the inside of the glass and she nods with a small smile. </p><p>To Dean, Castiel smells… conflicted. Proud, scared, worried, but also stubbornly hopeful, just like Claire. Just like Dean. </p><p>Swallowing heavily as he watches the lingering interaction, Dean can’t help but feel the same mess of emotions simply looking at his would-be Mate. Just witnessing how much Castiel has changed in one short night. Sure, he’s still all kinds of stupidly privileged and dumb as hell about it, but when faced with reality, with <em> real </em>people hurting and suffering, he turned his every belief on its head without a second thought. </p><p>Not only that, but he handed over money and resources to <em>Kaia, </em>a woman he met only hours prior, without blinking. Never once asked for the spotlight or thanks, or even to control how and where his assets will be used. In fact, Castiel immediately decided that being visible and drawing attention to himself would be dangerously counter-productive, so the only thing he <em>did </em>do was promise to get them more, to set up a permanent access structure just as soon as he’s back in the office. In all of his years of activism work, Dean’s seen plenty of people with less valid excuses than Castiel do a lot worse under weaker pressure.</p><p>The minivan shifts into gear and Castiel steps back, albeit reluctantly. They’ve all already said their goodbyes, Castiel is just being a sentimental and concerned parent. While Dean has no children of his own, he basically raised Sam and feels he can relate. If it had been Sam in Claire’s place tonight, if it had been <em> him </em>witnessing the realities of how hard it can be to simply exist as a person of color and/or an omega in this world, he would be the same sort of reluctant to let Sam out of his sight. Maybe ever.</p><p>But Claire is a big girl and Kaia is a revolutionary, and the two of them have places to go and people to help. Kaia’s phone has been chiming nonstop since she turned the ringer back on, blowing up with protestors in need of legal, emotional, and—in a few cases, afraid to trust that the local hospitals wouldn’t sell them out to the police—even medical support. To Claire’s right, Kaia already has the phone to her ear, talking to Max, who’s already left his emergency room bed A.M.A. They’re intensely discussing what resources to send where, but Claire’s other hand is still grasped in Kaia’s own, tucked into her lap. </p><p>“They’ll be alright,” Dean murmurs to Castiel, standing closer than he might have done this afternoon, before, well, everything. Things have changed, and Dean is <em> tired. </em> Physically and emotionally. At this point, he really needs to pick his battles, especially as it’s becoming clearer and clearer that this bond with Castiel isn’t something he even wants to fight. Everything that’s wrong in this world, and maybe Dean’s been wasting energy pushing away the one thing that’s <em> right.  </em></p><p>“I know,” Castiel says, the intake of his breath sharp as the van speeds off into the night, tail lights casting a reddish pall over his handsome face.  </p><p>There was an offer made at some point by the friends that picked Kaia up—to take Dean and Castiel wherever they might want to go—but Dean had waved them off, insisting he was jittery and needed to walk the whole experience off. He doesn’t exactly regret it now, but despite being less than a half-mile from his shop, he and Cas are <em>also </em> alone at what amounts to the beginning of Skid Row. Dean kind of wishes they were already home, holed up and safe behind locks and iron bars. </p><p>Once again, it’s not his neighborhood he fears, but what else might be lurking in the shadows. People from outside this area who came in with bad intentions, looking for opportunities to wreak havoc and cause disruption. Over the past few weeks, Dean’s seen his share. Cars with out-of-state license plates roaming where tourists don’t dare to go, white alphas darting in and around his block, refusing to admit where they’re from when Dean tries to find out.</p><p>And, of course, there’s always the chance that the police will show up, too. If they’re particularly pissed about today’s protest, Dean wouldn’t put it past them to raid Skid Row just for fun, snatching up tents and burning people’s meager property, just for kicks. </p><p>Cas doesn’t think of this shit, doesn’t have a reason to do anything but stand in the middle of the street watching Claire and Kaia’s ride disappear around the corner like this area’s no less safe than the Sunset Strip.</p><p>“C’mon, William Wallace,” Dean urges, taking the alpha’s hand when Castiel doesn’t immediately listen. Dean tugs him down a side alley that’s a shortcut back to his shop, quickening his pace almost to the speed at which they left the protest scene. He avoids the main hubs of Skid Row, mostly because Dean isn’t up for interacting with anyone else’s misfortune tonight, but Castiel doesn’t question it.</p><p>In fact, he remains quiet the rest of the walk home. He doesn’t once suggest that they call an Uber or, like, land his private helicopter on San Pedro to whisk them out of there, which Dean appreciates. After everything, all he wants right now is to be back in his own shitty space, surrounded by his own scent (and maybe Castiel’s) and everything that’s comforting and familiar to him. Protests devolving into violence may be their new normal, but Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever not find it unsettling. </p><p>As the shop comes into view down Dean’s darkened street, Castiel’s scent changes and Dean picks up on it with interest. The alpha smells <em> relieved, </em>happy, even, which prompts Dean to sling an arm around his shoulder and pull him close as they cover the last few yards to Dean’s front door. He doesn’t miss the way Castiel leans into him, noses just below his ear as Dean struggles to key the three different locks open. Much as he might like to blame the relative darkness, broken only by a yellow-tinged streetlight at the edge of his property, Dean knows he could open this door in his sleep.</p><p>It’s <em> Cas, </em> it’s the fact that they’re about to be really and truly alone together. It’s that Dean can no longer say he doesn’t know the guy, doesn’t like him and doesn’t want to. Everything they’ve shared—not just tonight, but over the past few weeks, text messaging threads broken only by phone calls where Dean’s admitted to things he’s never told another soul—has changed the game. Worse, Dean finds himself <em> glad </em>that’s the case, and what’s he supposed to do with that?</p><p>He and Castiel have to physically part ways as Dean finally fumbles the door open, though Castiel stays close to his side as the step over the threshold. The inside of the shop is completely dark, too, but Dean doesn’t even bother with the lights. Instead, he shuts the door and locks it behind them, dropping the shades and snatching up Cas’ hand once again before making for the stairs. </p><p>The entrance to Dean’s apartment above is hidden behind a door marked “Utility,” for obvious reasons. It’s another safety precaution, another, “<em>just in</em> case," that as far as Dean knows, has never been necessary. Still shrouded in pitch black with Cas basically plastered to his side, Dean locks and chains that door behind them, too. </p><p>They climb the stairs quietly, Dean with his hand on the small of Cas’ back, guiding him. Another alpha might bristle and take offense to that sort of gesture, but Castiel only hums in appreciation, his scent turning just a bit sweeter. His reaction leaves Dean smiling into the blackness, knowing that it’s genuine. </p><p>Admittedly, between the lack of light and the distracting nature of Cas’ presence, Dean gets caught up and forgets to warn his guest about the broken step towards the top of the flight. It’s only when Castiel huffs and stumbles, tumbling forward and out of Dean’s hands, that he remembers.</p><p>“Uh… as you may have discovered, that step is missing its nose,” Dean guiltily admits into the shadows, kneeling on the stair a few down from the one Castiel tripped on. Bumping against Dean’s body as he goes, Castiel turns beneath him, thankfully letting out a small laugh when he does. “Sorry, man,” Dean apologizes, trying to ignore the way that even Cas’ accidental touches make him tingle. “I dropped my A.C. unit hauling it up here the other day and haven’t gotten around to fixing the damage.” </p><p>Despite or maybe <em> because </em> of his inability to see clearly, Cas’ presence feels that much stronger to Dean right now. Cas’ scent, his essence—it’s as if it’s surrounding Dean, like Cas is everywhere, not just sitting on the step in front of him, so <em> so </em>tantalizingly close to Dean’s face. </p><p>“Maybe you should never fix it,” Castiel murmurs softly, his breath grazing Dean’s lips and <em> oh, Christ, </em> he’s even closer than Dean realized. A slight shift forward has Dean slipping between his legs, the fabric of their shirts catching and snagging, and <em> this is it, this is how Dean gives in. </em>He’s not even fucking sorry. </p><p>…<em>But.  </em></p><p>He wants to look Castiel in his eyes when they do this. Intoxicating scent of arousal and affection aside, Dean’s selfish and he wants to <em> see </em>his alpha. Wants to look into his eyes and know for sure that Cas is on the same page as him. So he swallows the whine that’s threatening to escape from the back of his throat, pulls himself together, and shifts away. He doesn’t need to sniff to recognize Castiel’s disappointment, but he vows to make it short-lived.</p><p>“C’mon alpha,” he says, “Just trust me.” </p><p>A few seconds later has them exiting the stairwell into Dean’s kitchen. He flicks the lights on, and while they’re low-watt and kind of yellow, they still make Castiel blink as his eyes adjust, and the sight is <em> stupidly </em>adorable. Equally so is Castiel’s attempt to scope out Dean’s modest living space without outwardly reacting, but points to him for trying.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Dean says, touching Castiel’s elbow and smiling softly. “I know it ain’t much. You don’t gotta pretend. Important thing is that I’m happy here, I like my place.” </p><p>He expects Castiel to demur, to have something careful and sanitized to say, something he’s been preparing and held ready for just this situation, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, Castiel’s eyes land on Dean’s face and he starts. “You’re injured,” he says, reaching up to touch the now-dried blood on Dean’s temple with his fingers. They come away with flaky red that Cas brushes off using his shirt. </p><p>Shit, in all the chaos of escaping and saying goodnight to the girls, Dean had completely forgotten about his head, but Cas is right.</p><p>“No worries,” he says, pulling out a chair from his little dining set and motioning for Castiel to sit. “I’ve had worse. I’ve got a kit around here somewhere.” The alpha doesn’t sit, because he’s Castiel, so Dean motions again more pointedly and this time, Castiel sighs and plops down stiffly. His shoulders remain tense, stretching the limits of that tee he has painted on. <em> God bless whoever manufactured that thing</em>, Dean thinks, because it makes Cas’ chest and arm muscles look fucking amazing. </p><p>Chuckling to himself, Dean crouches to rummage below the kitchen sink, surfacing quickly with a white box sporting a red cross on the lid. Without pretense, he drops the thing in front of Castiel and pulls one of the other chairs closer. That way, when he sits, they’ll be nearly on top of each other. Castiel looks surprised but Dean just keeps his amusement to himself. Before taking his seat, he turns and opens the fridge, extracting two beers with one hand and uncapping them both on the side of the table. He slides one over in front of Cas, who continues to blink at him in wonder, apparently bewildered by the trick. </p><p>Castiel examines the bottle <em> and </em>the cap, opening his mouth and closing it twice before finally asking, “Will you teach me how to do that?” </p><p>Breaking out into a wide smile, Dean sits down, as close as he dares. “Sure, Cas,” he replies. “Gotta be willing to scratch up your fancy furniture a little, though.” </p><p>Beside him, the alpha just nods distractedly, already unpacking the first-aid kit. His fingers falter on all the various items, but he tries to lay them out in some semblance of order anyway. Dean can <em> tell </em>that he has no clue what he’s doing, but Castiel looks so damn determined, Dean doesn’t have the heart to interrupt. Plus, it’s not like this is rocket science. </p><p>After a few minutes, Cas settles on dabbing the dried blood on Dean’s face away with some gauze and hydrogen peroxide before applying a thin layer of antibacterial gel. All common sense stuff, but Dean gets the sense that putting the steps together is quite an accomplishment for him. It’s soothing Cas’ alpha desire to protect and comfort, anyway, his scent mellowing a little from the sharpness that blossomed when his attention was drawn to Dean’s injury in the first place. </p><p>He’s not so bad to look at from Dean’s perspective, either. The way Cas’ brow furrows and his forehead wrinkles when he concentrates is cute. The pouty bow of his upper lip, framing the tiny “O” his mouth makes as he examines Dean’s cut, thoughtful and pensive—fucking delightful. </p><p>“This should probably have some ice,” he mutters, not necessarily to Dean, as shown by his disinterest in a reply that Dean doesn’t offer anyway. </p><p>One thing Dean can’t deny is that Castiel is beautiful. Attractive by any standard, for sure, but almost excruciatingly close to Dean’s ideal physicality in an alpha. He’s thought about this a <em> lot </em> (and not just in his bed, alone with his hand) and Dean still can’t decide whether he loves that or whether it irks him more. <em> Goddamn cosmic interference in his life. </em> It drives Dean <em> crazy </em>to admit (if he’s being honest with himself) that he’d easily have picked Castiel out of a lineup or off of a barstool to take home. Would have chosen him on his own. Would have fucked him, even dated him, with absolutely no hesitation. </p><p><em> Why </em> does knowing <em> that </em> make all of this harder instead of easier? It shouldn’t. </p><p>Lost in his thoughts, Dean doesn’t notice right away that Castiel is finished, not until Cas’ fingers press a <em> hint </em>too hard around the edges of the bandage he’s taped over Dean’s wound. Dean winces, the tip of Castiel’s index finger nudging directly into the cut. Castiel, of course, overreacts, growling and flushing. </p><p>“Please forgive me, Dean, I am—this is not my forte.” </p><p>“Did you just <em> growl </em> at <em> yourself?” </em>Dean asks in disbelief, barely holding back a laugh. Looking positively disgruntled, Castiel shakes his head miserably, staring back at Dean with big, mournful eyes that have Dean taking pity on him in a snap. “Hey, it’s no big deal, buddy. It was an accident.”  </p><p>“I hurt you.” Castiel scowls.</p><p>“I’m good,” Dean assures him, flashing the uncomfortable alpha a wink. He hops out of his chair and opens the freezer, grabbing the first bag of frozen (<em>freezer-burned)</em> vegetables he comes across. When he sits back down and hands them over, Castiel just peers down at the bag in confusion. “They’re peas,” Dean says. “You use them to—” He takes them back and holds them to the side of his head in a makeshift cold compress. </p><p>Wincing for the second time and thinking better of putting the icy plastic on his bare skin, Dean leans back in his chair, reaching out an arm to yank the dishtowel from its usual place over the side of the sink. He wraps up the peas before replacing them on the side of his head and glancing over at Cas, whose eyes are wide again. “See? Ice pack.” </p><p>Castiel visibly swallows. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at this,” he says bluntly, gently removing the peas from Dean’s grasp and applying them over the wound himself. His touch is careful and his expression is intense, like what he’s doing is <em> the </em>most sensitive and important task the world has ever seen. The wave of affection Dean feels at that sight is both silly and unexpected, and Dean doesn’t even try to chase it away. </p><p>With Castiel’s face so close, it’s easy for Dean to lean in and close the gap between them, pressing his mouth firmly to the alpha’s. He holds there for several seconds, just so there’s no possible way Castiel can misinterpret his intentions. Cas’ lips are soft and dry beneath Dean’s own, and it takes him a long moment before he responds at all. It’s only when Dean begins to pull away that Castiel’s brain seemingly clicks online, his breath hitches, and he chases after. </p><p>Dean lets himself be caught, kisses Castiel back with enthusiasm, their lips parting and coming together several times before Dean finally sits back, slightly out of breath. As first kisses go, it is a bit strange—they’re still sitting in their respective chairs, no other parts of their bodies touching save for one knee each. </p><p>It’s also intensely gratifying, filling Dean’s body with delicious waves of both arousal and satisfaction. Dean feels that <em> pull </em> in his chest—the one that drives him constantly towards Castiel—light up in a whole new way and he somehow <em> knows </em> that just touching him, pressing up against him, would be <em> right. </em>Suddenly, Dean wants nothing more than to find out for himself. </p><p>That, plus the way Cas’ eyes stay closed long after Dean’s pulled away has him more than anxious to dive right in again. He wants to repeat that kiss, to find out how Castiel’s body fits in his arms, how every single part of him tastes. </p><p>“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, his eyes hazy once they finally open, his voice thick with want laid bare. “Are you—you’re sure?” </p><p>“Very sure,” Dean replies, leaning in and managing to steal another peck before Castiel gets a hand on his chest and gently pushes as he tips his own head back. </p><p>“If we—if we do more than kiss, we might scent bond,” he warns. That gives Dean pause, but only for a second. </p><p>“Okay,” he says simply, shifting against the hard wood of his chair and scooting not-so-discreetly closer to Castiel. “Not that—not that I’m ready for anything official, but scent bonding could be okay. They’re, uh, not so permanent.” </p><p>“They hurt to break,” Castiel points out, his eyebrows raising and his fingers still pressing into Dean’s sternum. Sighing, Dean throws his hands up in the air and flops back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.</p><p>“Jesus, Cas,” he grumbles. “What the hell do you want from me? I’m sayin’ I want you, now, what? Suddenly you don’t?” </p><p>“I just want you to be <em> sure</em>,” Castiel replies gently, leaning forward and letting his hand drop to Dean’s knee. “If you knew the restraint it’s taking me to—<em>Dean,</em>” he snaps pointedly, when Dean refuses to make eye contact, focusing instead on that one janky cabinet that’s hanging half-off of its top hinge. </p><p>Growling again (and Dean does not think that’s cute—he <em> doesn’t)</em>, Castiel snatches Dean’s wrist from where it’s tucked into his own elbow and yanks him forward. With a small squawk of protest, Dean goes, surprised when Castiel presses Dean’s hand to his groin, all the while staring up at him with intention.</p><p><em> Holy fuck. </em>Cas is well on his way to hard in his pants, so much so that Dean feels a little awkward not to be anywhere near the same predicament. </p><p>“It’s been a long time,” Castiel admits. His tone is little helpless, a little bit pathetic, and he clearly knows it. Just like Castiel looking around his kitchen for the first time, Dean very carefully does not react, but he doesn’t remove his hand, either (it’s not exactly unpleasant). “I don’t <em> see </em> many people—and I usually take suppressants, but since we met, I haven’t been. You—you <em> do </em>things to me, Dean.” Castiel releases his hand and reluctantly, Dean lets it drift, settling nearby on Cas’ thigh. “But I would never, never push you to do something I thought you’d regret.” </p><p>“Just, you know, as a rule, I don’t tend to regret sleeping with hot people,” Dean replies with a wiggle of his eyebrows, unable to help himself. </p><p>Castiel sighs, exasperated. “I’m being serious.”</p><p>“I know you are, Cas,” Dean replies, patting the alpha’s thigh and letting his fingers begin to trace patterns into the denim underneath their tips. “But not everything is fuckin’ serious. Sometimes it’s just fuckin’.” He grins, but his joke falls flat as Castiel glares down his nose, unimpressed. “Alright, fine. I see your point, but I’m good, Cas. Really.” Dean’s voice softens and he dips his head, taking a deep breath. “I’ve—things have changed. We, uh.” Dean pauses to scratch the back of his neck, frustrated when his words fail him. He’s sincere, he knows what he <em> feels, </em> he’s just <em> not </em>good at this shit. </p><p>Fortunately, Castiel must scent him and catch his drift, because suddenly—<em>thankfully—</em>the talking has stopped. Instead, Cas is kissing Dean, and he’s tugging at Dean’s belt loops insistently until Dean relents and climbs into his lap. “I was stupid,” he says into Dean’s mouth. “Please keep kissing me.” </p><p>“Was planning to,” Dean says with a sigh, relishing the way Castiel’s tongue slides slickly against his for the very first time. It’s sweet and oddly confident and Dean wants <em> more, </em> wants whatever Cas will give him. “<em>Fuck </em>yes.” Abruptly, he breaks away and stands up, grabbing Castiel’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “Lemme give you the nickel tour,” he says.</p><p>“Right now?” Castiel replies with confusion, but Dean doesn’t answer, just pivots and gestures around his kitchen as he talks. </p><p>“This is my entertaining space,” he declares. “Doubles as a kitchen, in a pinch. Fridge, table, sweet seven-hundred-watt microwave. Toaster, coffee pot, junk drawer, state of the art A.C. unit, and oh—oven that either burns the shit out of your food or spits it out half-frozen. No in-between.” Without pause, Dean flips the lights off and drags Castiel along behind him into the bedroom. He forgoes the switch for the overhead and clicks on the lamp at his bedside table instead before continuing across the room and into the attached bath.</p><p>“Bathroom,” he says flatly, shoving Castiel back out and into the bedroom again. </p><p>“Dresser that used to belong to my parents,” he says, pointing. “Bedframe me and Sam made down in the garage and then had to take apart because we didn’t think about lugging it up the stairs. Ended up having to use a rigged pulley system to get it piece by piece through the window. That was back when the window opened. And... that’s it. Only thing left is the mattress, which I <em> highly </em>recommend you check out up close and in person.” </p><p>Grinning widely, Dean spins around and finds Castiel watching him with warm affection, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’m surprised you don’t have a TV,” he says. “Considering your vast love of movies and pop culture references.”</p><p>“Psh,” Dean replies. “Cable is for suckers. That’s what my laptop is for. Pop that bitch on the end of the bed, add a box of pizza—I <em> dare </em>any movie theater to try and compete.” </p><p>Castiel hesitates, his fingers twining in between Dean’s like he’s worried Dean might try and let go. “Could we do that together sometime?” he asks, finally. “It sounds—I think I would enjoy that.”</p><p>“Sure,” Dean replies, surprised. “You—now?” </p><p>“No,” Castiel replies definitively, a shift flipping in his demeanor right before Dean’s eyes. He shakes his head and advances, maintaining eye contact and drawing himself up in the most alpha-predatory way Dean’s ever seen him hold his body. And listen—Dean is a <em> strong </em> omega. He prides himself on busting stereotypes about his secondary gender left and right. But seeing Cas like <em> that—</em>he’s not even ashamed to admit that he leaks a little, his dick hardening up in his pants almost as fast as Cas in the kitchen. </p><p>It’s the glint in Castiel’s eye, the way he sucks his lip in between his sharp, white teeth. It’s how he appears to grow taller in his own confidence, seemingly towering over Dean despite being an inch or so shorter. Dean’s pride won’t let him offer, but a traitorous part of his brain <em> badly, </em>badly wishes Castiel would demand he get down on his knees, that he open his mouth or present. </p><p>Dean would do it right now, he really fuckin’ would. </p><p>Before their lips can touch, Castiel stops with less than an inch between their faces. He scrutinizes Dean’s expression with interest and scents him with open delight. “I believe that you’re on board,” he says easily. “And I’m glad. Believe that I would love nothing more than to take you exactly the way my body is screaming for me to do. However, I would be remiss not to put out there—for your consideration—a second option.” </p><p>With Castiel all up in his space, his heady musk filling Dean’s nose and his head, making him hazy and dizzy, he can barely focus on what the alpha is saying. God knows how <em> Cas </em> is managing to string more than two words together, <em> he’s </em>supposed to be the sex-starved one here. </p><p>“Wha?” Dean manages, his voice coming out rough, even to his own ears. He licks his lips because Castiel won’t kiss them, though he certainly watches Dean do so with interest. Cas’ hands have found their way to Dean’s hips, and their bodies sway and move together, almost on instinct, as Cas continues <em> talking</em>. </p><p>Ugh, <em> talking. </em>Dean hates it.</p><p>“If you aren’t ready, if you’re at all concerned about the bond and our attachment, or even my ability to refrain from biting you—” <em> Fuck, </em>in all the excitement, Dean conveniently forgot about that. “—you could fuck me, instead.” </p><p>Alright, that one gets his attention.</p><p><em> “What? </em> Wait, are you serious?"</p><p>Castiel’s eyes narrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?” </p><p>Dean shakes his head, trying to clear it. “You—you have an omega, willing and ready to let you stick it in, and you’re <em> offering </em>to give that up?” </p><p>A smile plays over Castiel’s features, the bulge in his pants brushing over the growing one in Dean’s, making him shiver. “It’s my understanding that theoretically, we could ‘do it’—” God help Dean, Cas lifts his hands to use actual air quotes. “—more than one time. If you’re amenable, of course. If things keep going well, perhaps that could even extend to <em> many </em>times.” </p><p>Forcing himself to focus, Dean presses the issue. “You’ve done that before?”</p><p>The smile on Castiel’s face falters a little, and his hands release Dean’s hips as he withdraws slightly into himself. “No, Cas, shit—” Dean course-corrects quickly, reaching out to drag him back in. “I wasn’t judging, dude. Hello, who do you think I am? I was just surprised. Most alphas—”</p><p>“I haven’t done it before,” Castiel admits, his eyes downcast. “There is… stigma. I am interested, though, and I would do it for you,” he adds quietly, and then his head is snapping up, gaze fierce as he locks eyes with Dean once more. “I would <em> treasure </em>the chance to do it with you.” </p><p>“Alright, alpha,” Dean says fondly, tracing a hand over Cas’ cheekbone and the petulant set of his jaw. “I get it, you’re progressive in all the ways.” He sucks in a deep breath and blows it back out. “And that’s sounds <em> awesome, </em>it does, but the thing is, I like being fucked. And I really want you to fuck me. So, like you said, maybe next time.” Castiel’s eyes go wide but before he can reply again, Dean’s lunging in and capturing his mouth, licking between his teeth with earnest fervor. </p><p>The next few minutes are a flurry of hands grabbing and clothes being torn off—<em>R.I.P. Dean’s t-shirt—</em>and thankfully, Castiel doesn’t try to steer them back to the verbal negotiation portion of the evening. He does refuse to stop kissing Dean any more than he absolutely has to, which Dean likes a lot more than all the discussion. He even growls when Dean’s head gets stuck in his shirt’s hole, ultimately ripping it down the middle instead of working it off like a normal person. </p><p>Watching the shreds go fluttering to the floor as Castiel winds arms around his waist, presses lips to the underside of his jaw, Dean <em> wants </em> to be pissed about his shirt, but he just… isn’t. For an alpha, Castiel has so many weird personality traits, is so damn practiced at suppressing his instincts and his desires. The thing is, Dean <em> likes </em> a little manhandling the bedroom, and he <em> really </em> likes seeing Castiel lose his mind over <em> him</em>. </p><p>So sue him, Dean’s not a fuckin’ saint. </p><p>Plus, Castiel feels pretty damn incredible in his arms. Dean’s dreamed about this—more than he’d be willing to admit to anyone, even Cas—and what comes next so many times. There were nights when Cas was falling asleep on the other end of the phone that Dean didn’t think they’d ever get here, and just as many that made him incredibly sure there was no avoiding it. </p><p>The pheromones make the experience sweeter, there’s no denying that. The simple intoxication Dean felt the first time he scented his would-be True Mate sweeps back over him full force, desperately working to encourage him on. This time, he lets it, and instead of worrying, Dean enjoys every damn second.</p><p>Dipping his head down, Dean captures Castiel’s mouth again, the alpha’s muscled chest hot against Dean’s own. The room around them is just <em> slightly </em>on the wrong side of too-warm, and not for the first time ever, Dean curses his stupid window. He wishes he at least had a second one for some kind of cross-ventilation, but wishes ain’t horses. </p><p>Castiel doesn’t seen to notice anything uncomfortable about the situation at all, busy as he is marking up Dean’s neck. “Easy,” Dean murmurs, feeling Cas’ canines grazing temptingly over his pulse point. Maybe it’s his downstairs brain talking, but that idea doesn’t seem <em> nearly </em> as bad as it might have an hour ago. In fact, Dean’s dick throbs when his mind supplies him an image of Castiel really biting down, drawing blood, making Dean <em> his. </em>In response, Dean’s hands tighten on Castiel’s hips.</p><p>“Apologies,” Castiel replies, not bothering to lift his face away from Dean’s skin. He simply relocates and nips at his collarbone instead, and Dean doesn’t know whether he’s upset about that or not. </p><p><em> God, hormones are confusing, </em>he thinks.</p><p>Before he can get too wrapped up in his musings, Castiel’s hands find his belt, and Dean snaps back into the moment, reciprocating in kind. He shoves Castiel’s jeans and fancy boxers down over his hips, noting with appreciation the way the fabric gets stuck on his thick thighs. The puddle of clothes on the floor gets bigger, and Castiel gets sick of taking things slow. </p><p>With a low grunt, Castiel grabs Dean around his own thighs and hoists him up off of the ground. Dean reflexively wraps both arms and legs around Cas’s body, meeting his searching mouth without complaint. As Castiel staggers forward, dumping Dean onto the bed and quickly following him down, Dean catches a whiff of the air. What he finds there floors him so badly, he forgets to be embarrassed about the way his bed frame creaks and rocks threateningly under their weight.</p><p>Beyond the overwhelming scents of swirling arousal and alpha happiness, Castiel’s scent is already changing. The isolated notes of his usual smoky cinnamon and honey are more muted, richer, and they make sense together because they smell like a finished product. Some kind of pastry, with clear-as-day apple notes. That secondary scent of sunshine now smells to Dean like the open road on a perfectly clear day. </p><p>It’s almost overkill, almost completely unnecessary for those things to evoke the words “mate” and “home” in his mind, and Dean has to close his eyes for a moment just to get a grip on himself. </p><p>Unlike the first time, though, and even earlier today when he thought it might be easier or better to walk the fuck away from Cas, Dean doesn’t feel the urge to run. And maybe he should question that, maybe he should wonder if it’s because Cas is pressed up against him naked, gorgeous alpha cock sliding tantalizingly against Dean’s own with silky smooth strokes. Maybe he should put a stop to all of this until he can think clearly at <em> all, </em> until he can be <em> sure </em>he’s not doing something he’ll inevitably regret, just like Cas feared.</p><p>Of course, right as he’s considering pulling the plug is when Cas’ face surfaces from where he’s been mouthing at Dean’s nipples. Teeth bared, he’s been teasingly letting them graze over each nub, sending sparks of pleasure shooting down Dean’s core. Cas’ eyes are bright, pupils visibly dilated in the soft light. To his delight, Dean gets to watch as Castiel reacts to the same information he’s been processing, sniffing the air and lighting up with what could only be described as <em> pure fuckin’ joy.  </em></p><p>It makes Dean grin, which is ridiculous, but Cas is so goddamn genuine, wearing his emotions on his sleeve in a way that’s almost childlike, especially in his wonder. “Wow,” he says quietly, shyly, almost hesitantly making eye contact with Dean, like he expects to be pushed away. His awe is so apparent, Dean couldn’t even begin to consider doing anything of the sort.</p><p>“Come here, you dork,” he says, grabbing the back of Castiel’s head and yanking him in to kiss. The little moan of relief that escapes into Dean’s mouth from Cas’ throat hurts his heart and makes him stupidly glad he didn’t kick the alpha out of bed over something silly like, oh, Dean’s entire life and freedom. </p><p>
  <em> God damn pheromones.  </em>
</p><p>But then Cas is rutting against him again, the warmth of the room and the heat coming off of both of their bodies starting to make the alpha sweat. That only intensifies his scent, which in turn, makes Dean crave him more. He runs hands over Cas’ cut shoulders, pressing his mouth to damp skin and just letting himself get lost in all the sensations. </p><p>As they move together, Castiel braces an elbow next to Dean’s head, kissing him slow and sweet as he works a hand down in between Dean’s legs. There’s nothing about Cas that’s rushed, nothing that’s selfish or self-serving, and as he strokes Dean’s cock, Dean starts to feel guilty about having <em> any </em>shitty inclinations about the guy, ever. </p><p>Maybe Dean would have had some more thoughts about that, too, but Castiel’s fingers find their way to his slick entrance, probing and slipping inside, and Dean’s suddenly really busy letting his eyes roll back in his head to care at about anything else at all. </p><p>“Would love to make you come on just my tongue,” Castiel murmurs in his ear. In response, Dean tightens his legs around Cas’ hips, grinds down on his fingers and stifles a moan. “Oh no, let me hear you—please, Dean,” Castiel coaxes, his tone oddly soothing. Wrapping an arm around Cas’ torso and holding on, Dean complies, crying out in a way that would definitely embarrass him if he wasn’t so fuckin’ <em> into </em>what Cas is doing, how Cas is making him feel. </p><p>He doesn’t know how long it is—doesn’t even<em> try </em>to keep track—before Cas’ fingers are withdrawing and his cock is pressing at Dean’s entrance in their stead. Dean just groans, spreads his legs further, squeezes Cas’ asscheek with his hand, and eggs him on. “C’mon, alpha,” he urges. “Give it to me.”  </p><p>Dean Winchester does not buy into fairytale, happy-ending bullshit, True Mates mythos inclusive. He doesn’t know of any Disney movies where the magical romantic climax involves an omega getting railed with an alpha pulling their hair. All the same, after this, he might just be a believer. </p><p>Something happens when Castiel slides inside him. It’s a burst of energy, that same weird wind from the parking lot swirling around his tiny space and knocking over pictures, rattling his lamp. If Dean weren’t so busy trying not to come, he’d say his left shoulder burns where Cas’ hand grips it. In reality, though, his whole body is on fire, everywhere Cas’s skin presses against it. Inside and out, Dean <em> burns </em> and cries out for more, for Castiel to envelop him and swallow him whole—Dean <em> swears </em>he wouldn’t protest, would gladly let him. </p><p>In his entire life, Dean’s never <em> wanted </em> anyone so badly, never mind someone he already <em> has</em>. He holds Castiel close, drags nails across his flexing back as Cas thrusts. Inside his chest, Dean <em> feels </em>so damn much that he can hardly fuckin’ breathe. Instead of stressing about it, Dean just searches out Castiel’s mouth and kisses him harder. He lets the friction of their bodies and the way Cas’ knot begins to swell and tug at his rim buoy and sweep him over the edge until he’s spilling between them with a loud moan. </p><p>It’s only amidst his post-orgasm haze, his legs still weak and trembling as Castiel positions them more comfortably on their sides—Dean’s thigh hitched up over Cas’ hip while they’re stuck together—that it even occurs to Dean—they didn’t use a condom. </p><p><em> Well, too late now, </em>Dean muses, a bit hysterically, rubbing a hand over his face as Castiel nuzzles down into his neck. </p><p>Still, that weird fireworks moment in the middle aside, Dean feels pretty okay. <em> Good, </em> if he’s being honest. Slightly more affectionate towards Castiel than before he had the guy’s dick up his ass, and their scents are <em> definitely </em>co-mingled, but that’s nothing to be worried about—probably. Just in case, Dean checks in on his free will, reaching down to pinch the meat of Cas’ ass hard enough to hurt, maybe even bruise.</p><p>“Ouch!” Castiel protests, his head jerking up and his knot tugging unpleasantly (for Dean, Castiel’s eyes go a little crossed and he groans) on Dean’s rim. When he gets control of himself, his eyes narrow and he peers over at Dean suspiciously. “Why did you do that?”</p><p>Dean shrugs. “Just checking.” He pinches Castiel again, with a similar result. </p><p>“Quit it!”</p><p>One more time, just in case.</p><p>“Dean, what the hell has gotten into you?”</p><p>Dean grins and settles down onto his pillow, satisfied. “Nothin’ but you, apparently,” he replies. </p><p>Things are perfect and quiet for all of three minutes after that, before the last thing Dean expects to happen tonight, does. As they’re lying there, Dean reaching up to push a sweaty lock of hair from Castiel’s face, the goddamn ceiling caves in. No pretense, no warning (unless you count that growing stain Dean’s been ignoring for the last...however long), just plaster shards and insulation, and a disgusting <em> gush </em> of stale, moldy water that at least has the decency to puddle to the <em> right </em> of Dean’s bed, and not directly on top of him (<em>them)</em>. </p><p>As Castiel coughs the dust from his lungs and blinks it from his eyes, all Dean can do—literally, because he’s still tied to Castiel—is sigh and let his head thunk back on the pillow. Some insulation drifts around his nose and he sneezes. Castiel looks as if he’s just seen a ghost.</p><p>“So,” Dean says, when he eventually comes to terms with the fact that nothing in his life is ever going to come easily. “About teaching you stuff... Any particular feelings about home improvement?”</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'm sure they'll bang more next time... writing smut is like eating pringles for me, once i start i can't stop.</p><p>Next time: A surprise mark, Castiel learns more than one new trick, Dean actually lets him help, everyone takes some major steps forward.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. In the Weeds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In fact, Dean’s so busy admiring the ceiling, he doesn’t notice at first that Castiel’s no longer doing the same thing. When he drops his gaze, it’s with a little jolt to find the alpha mere inches away, staring <i>him</i> down instead. “Hello, Dean,” Castiel’s gravelly voice says. “I would like to do something else new, now.” </p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to @thetwistedwillow for editing, yet again!</p><p>chapter warnings for top Dean/bottom Cas, unprotected sex, dangerous driving r/t Dean's inability to look away from Cas :-P oh, and soulmate-type marks (not biting-yet) if you are sensitive to that sort of thing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If push came to shove, Dean <em>supposes </em>he <em>might </em>be willing to admit that sleeping beside Castiel isn’t awful. Weird, stale-smell lingering in the air aside, at least, but that’s not exactly Castiel’s fault. No, <em> fucking opposite, </em> Castiel smells <em>so </em>damn good that Dean wakes up at least three times with his nose buried in the guy’s neck. Twice while they’re chest-to-chest, Cas’ arms wound around his waist, and once while the rest of Dean’s body is plastered to Cas’ back. </p><p>It’s quickly becoming apparent to Dean that his unconscious self doesn’t have the same reservations about Castiel that his waking brain does. Hell, after last night, even his waking brain is having a hard time remembering what, exactly, he’s so damn worried about. </p><p>Lying next to Castiel as he snores, peacefully oblivious to Dean’s inner turmoil, isn’t helping. Somehow, the alpha has managed to position himself in the only tiny patch of direct sun this room ever gets. The ray of light casting over his face makes him appear almost angelic, definitely not someone capable of the atrocities Dean’s heart of hearts still fears being foisted upon him. </p><p>Castiel isn’t perfect, but no one is, and the more Cas tries, the less fair it feels for Dean to hold him to such a high standard. It’s just—the more opportunities Dean has to get to know the guy, the harder he is to jam inside a box and forget about. At the end of the day, Dean’s not so great either. He’s got plenty of flaws, he’s broke as a joke, and maybe, after everything, isn’t that what he’s <em> really </em> worried about?</p><p>That <em> he </em> isn’t good enough for Cas? That he’d be a passing interest, a chew toy, fun when it’s shiny and new but easily disregarded and replaced when he isn’t anymore? Dean’s old, for an unmated omega anyway. He’s infertile, so he’s got nothing to offer Cas, not even the one thing he’s supposed to be friggin’ good for. All of those things considered, Dean just finds it impossibly difficult to wrap his head around why an alpha like <em> Cas </em>would even want him at all. </p><p>The chew toy analogy starts looking increasingly probable, until Dean thinks back on the way Cas cared for him the night before. The alpha’s complete unfamiliarity with anything in the first aid-kit, or how to act like a regular human at all, and his equal determination to try. The careful way he cleaned Dean up and bandaged his wound, which, oddly, feels like it’s barely even there today. </p><p>Reaching up, Dean pulls the bandage from where it’s stuck to his forehead, gingerly touching the skin beneath. No pain. Curious, he scoots out of the bed and into the bathroom, flipping on the flickering light before studying himself in the mirror. At the edge of his hairline, where he’s one <em> hundred </em> percent <em> sure </em>there was a significant, borderline-needing-stitches cut, there now exists only smooth, perfectly unblemished skin. </p><p>
  <em> What?  </em>
</p><p>Conversely, since he’s stark naked, Dean can’t exactly ignore that his left bicep is now sporting the faint outline of Castiel fucking Novak’s <em> handprint</em>. </p><p>Dean starts, remembering abruptly the way the air in the room had swirled around them. How Cas’ hand, gripping his shoulder tight, felt like it was somehow burning <em> more </em>than the rest of his body.</p><p>
  <em> He felt it, but he hadn’t thought— </em>
</p><p>Fitting his hand over the mark, Dean closes his eyes and swallows heavily. The bathroom suddenly feels stifling, and it’s not actually very hot out today. He squeezes his hand around the muscle and fights down a wave of emotion.</p><p>For Dean’s parents, the True Mates mark was his dad’s fingers wrapping around his mother’s wrist. Always an unconscious gesture of protection and affection, little Dean had seen his dad reach for her in that way countless times. In public, especially, in pressing crowds or anytime she might have felt threatened. From his toddler’s-eye view down on the ground and clutching her other hand, Dean had watched with awe and appreciation, from the way his father’s fingers fit perfectly over their shadows, to Mary’s responding smile. </p><p>
  <em> Every time. </em>
</p><p>Dean’s always wondered but never had the opportunity to ask either of them: which came first, the mark, or the inclination? </p><p>Opening his eyes, Dean examines the light pink impression on his own skin again. He traces over the mirrored curves of Castiel’s hand, and doesn’t have any idea how to feel about it. The <em> one </em> thing he knows for sure about True Mates, the <em> one </em> thing he’s held onto during this whirlwind “romance”, is that Castiel couldn’t— <em> wouldn’t—</em>be able to mark him. That while an omega can be claimed and owned against their will, they can <em> never </em>be marked if they don’t consent. </p><p>They can be <em> bitten—</em>of course, anyone can bite anyone—but a mark like this, Dean has always been told and led to believe that the omega in the potential pair has to want it, too. Likewise, a mark can’t be faked—it happens spontaneously and is as much a reflection of the alpha’s feelings as the omega’s own. That it’s a sign of <em> reciprocal </em> affection, not ownership, and <em> fuck, </em>Dean is not ready for this.</p><p>In the other room, he can hear Castiel stirring. Quick as anything, Dean wipes his watery eyes and rushes out of the bathroom, careful to keep his left shoulder away from Castiel’s sightline. He beelines for the dresser, pulling out a t-shirt, boxers, and his favorite pair of jeans, yanking them on roughly. Under the guise of straightening his sleeve, Dean makes sure the mark is fully covered before turning around.  </p><p>“Hey,” he says, faux-brightly. Over on the bed, Castiel is stretched out, looking for all the world like Dean’s bed is draped in thousand-thread-count sheets and fit for a king. He looks <em> happy, </em> relaxed, and like he belongs there. Dean’s heart stutters in his chest, torn between fearing that isn’t true, and <em> knowing, </em>thanks to the mark, that if Dean wants it to be, then it is. </p><p>The lazy smile stretching across Castiel’s face fades away as Dean approaches with caution, knowing that the alpha can surely smell the conflict all over him. “I’m okay,” Dean says softly, pre-empting the words of concern that are undoubtedly about to tumble out of Castiel’s mouth. Neither him nor his disastrous bed head look even remotely convinced, but Cas’ jaw closes, even as he eyes Dean with worry. That’s something. </p><p>“I am,” Dean loudly insists anyway. “Just, uh, you know. Got a hole in my ceiling, and nobody’s gonna fix it but me.” </p><p>“I can help,” Castiel says eagerly, shoving the thin sheet that’s been shielding his lower body aside and standing up without an ounce of shame. Understandably, though. Shit, if Dean had a dick that looked like that soft, he might never put clothes on again. When Dean just openly gawks instead of attempting to formulate a reply, Castiel finally reacts, looking down and moving his hands to shield himself with a low chuckle. “Oh,” he says. “Um, my clothes from last night are—”</p><p>“Got plenty you can borrow,” Dean replies quickly, shifting into business mode. He heads back to his dresser and fishes some more things out—he and Cas are close to the same size, so everything should fit. When he turns around to hand the items over, though, Castiel is standing <em> right </em>there, all up in his personal space like it’s his right, and Dean bristles. “Hey man,” he says, “Pers—”</p><p>But Dean doesn’t get a chance to finish the phrase, because Castiel’s fingers are underneath his shirt sleeve, lifting it up gingerly, like it’s hot or something. Unprepared, Dean flushes and tries to yank his arm away, which Castiel allows. He looks stricken, looks pretty much how Dean felt back in the bathroom when he discovered the mark in the first place. </p><p>No use lying about it, though, not as if either of them can. They have feelings for each other and those feelings are real, that’s about the size of it. Despite his attempts to hide the mark, Dean actually figures it’s probably best they get this all out in the open sooner rather than later.</p><p>And yet, he can’t seem to force his mouth to make words, staring instead up at the hole in the ceiling and watching the way little flecks of plaster continue to detach and float their way to the ground. </p><p>“Dean,” Castiel says, reaching out to touch Dean’s arm, just below the mark, the proximity still making him shiver. Reluctantly, Dean forces himself to tear his gaze away and make eye contact, surprised to find only empathy and concern on Castiel’s face. Not excitement, not smug pride, and definitely not the possessiveness Dean fears. </p><p>“This must be very hard for you,” Castiel says, and that’s it, Dean folds. He collapses into Castiel’s space, tucking his face into the alpha’s neck before he fully realizes what he’s doing. As his arms fold around Dean, Castiel makes a noise that Dean reads as <em> grateful, </em>holding him close and petting a hand through his hair, which Dean’s surprised he finds soothing. </p><p>“Yeah,” he croaks. Suddenly, Dean wants—for whatever reason—to let Castiel know that he got it right, and “yeah,” is the best that he can do right now. With his nose up against Cas’ throat, Dean can’t help but be inundated with the alpha’s new scent. It’s calming, soothing in a way that nothing he’s experienced since being held by his mom at four years old has ever been, and Dean figures he might as well lean into it. After a few minutes of scenting their bond and allowing it to help him relax, Dean actually feels <em> better</em>. </p><p>Not just “less upset,” but actually… better.  </p><p>He releases his grip on a still-naked Castiel ruefully, somewhat embarrassed over his behavior. When he opens his mouth to apologize, though, Castiel’s right there, holding a finger to his lips. </p><p>“Please don’t,” Castiel says gently. “I understand and I—I’m grateful you didn’t run.” </p><p>“It’s not your fault I’m a big mess,” Dean replies, maybe a little more frustrated in tone than he intends, but Castiel doesn’t seem to take offense. Castiel <em> never </em> seems to take offense, no matter how brash and angry and assholish Dean behaves, and shit—maybe that’s all the cosmic signage he should need. </p><p>Right now, Cas’ eyes are soft as he gazes up at Dean with open affection and a barely-hidden layer of concern. The fact that the guy is still <em> naked </em> and totally unbothered about it—does this dude <em> ever </em>worry about himself? No, Dean decides. Clearly not. Fine. Then Dean will fuckin’ worry about Cas for him. </p><p>“Put your clothes on,” Dean says gruffly, shoving the smushed bundle he’s still cradling into Cas’ arms before turning on his heel. “Then I’m gonna feed you, and teach you how to not be a useless waste of space when you have a problem you can’t throw money at.”</p><p>On his way out of the room, Dean ignores Cas when he calls after him, “Couldn’t I just call a repair person? Someone who makes a living helping useless wastes of space like me? Perhaps even one with a family to support? I could tip them very well, and show my appreciation by recommending their services to others.” </p><p>“Point,” Dean grumbles under his breath, once he’s very sure that Castiel can’t hear.</p><p>***</p><p>As it turns out, Castiel <em> really </em> enjoys bacon, and Dean really enjoys watching him eat almost half a package of it on his own. While he does, Cas enthusiastically explains to Dean that his <em> personal fucking chef </em>(why is Dean even surprised?) stopped making his favorites (bacon, burgers, fried peanut butter and jelly) after his cholesterol came back high following a physical sometime last year.</p><p>With a snort, Dean derisively asks, “What’s being able to afford to go to a doctor like?” And yes, he is definitely being an asshole about it. </p><p>Once again, Castiel not only takes Dean’s ornery petulance in stride, but he elevates his lack of resentment at being called out to the next level. He actually puts down his fork, looks Dean straight in the eye, and tells him that he would consider it a personal offense if Dean doesn’t let him pay for an updated physical, as soon as possible. </p><p>Somehow, Dean finds himself agreeing. It’s only because he’s been out of pain pills for his shitty knee and back for several months, and with this ceiling thing, now there’s <em> definitely </em>not going to be money for a clinic visit anytime soon. Hell, if Cas wants to help him stock up, well then. Dean’s not dumb enough to say no to that.</p><p>Soon enough, they’re in Baby’s front seat on the way to the home improvement store. The one Dean likes to go to is a bit out of the way, but it’s run by a friend of a family friend who always gives him wholesale or contractor prices, whatever is better. Rufus is a crusty son of a bitch, which is exactly why Dean likes him. </p><p>It’s not as if the extra minutes in the car are a hardship, either, what with Castiel practically drooling over Baby’s perfectly-maintained state and praising her many features, so different from any Gracela he owns or sells. He’s <em> so </em> complementary and so into her, Dean manages to forgive Cas for suggesting Baby’s engine <em> could </em>be converted to an eco-model, if he’d consider it (he wouldn’t). </p><p>That affront aside, if Dean makes a mental note to let Cas explore the backseat more closely after he locks up the side lot tonight, Dean’s pretty sure he can hardly be blamed for it.</p><p>All throughout the store, Castiel acts like a five-year-old let loose in the toy aisle. Picking things up and examining them, frequently dropping items or near-breaking them in his attempts to sort out what they do. Toilet flanges, couplets, various tools—all fair game, all equally fascinating to him. Dean spends more time grabbing things out of Castiel’s hands and putting them back on shelves than he does stocking their cart with necessities.</p><p>To his own bewilderment, he’s hardly bothered. It’s kind of fun to have someone to hang out with, especially doing a shitty chore like this one. And Cas is surprisingly playful, pushing Dean’s buttons and messing with him, which is fair, since Dean doesn’t hold back either. Cas is blunt and open and Dean <em> likes </em>it—doesn’t want to courted and handled with kid gloves like some dainty Renaissance Omega, kept locked in the tallest tower of the castle because they’re too fragile to… you know what? Dean’s never actually read any fairytales, so his ability to make analogies here isn’t particularly on point.  </p><p>Doesn’t matter—Cas’ company ends up being pretty great. </p><p>There’s a few weird moments when people assume they’re a near-mated couple. Old ladies sniffing politely in their vicinity and then smiling widely at them both like they’re in on some big fuckin’ secret. A young worker in the store who actually <em> congratulates </em>them, to Dean’s utter shock. Another assorted remark here and there, though nothing crazy. Dean mostly reacts by staring and gaping like a fish, but Castiel is more diplomatic. He politely thanks those who comment, while simultaneously steering Dean in the opposite direction with a verbal reminder that it’s none of anyone else’s business what they do.</p><p>Dean even catches a few alphas slyly scanning his neck for a mating bite, but one subtle growl from Castiel has them running for the hills. <em> That </em>should piss him off, but any day Dean doesn’t have to make excuses to turn down aggressive alphas is honestly a good one. Plus—not that he would admit this to Cas—the possessive-alpha schtick (when applied in extreme moderation and not to make Dean’s choices for him) is kinda hot.</p><p>Hot enough that Dean treats said alpha to a make-out session underneath the hanging rows of toilets, and doesn’t regret it one tiny bit.</p><p>All in all, he has a surprisingly damn good time.</p><p>So when they get up to the register with all of Dean’s supplies and Cas pulls out his fancy black card, Dean barely puts up a token protest before letting him swipe. Yeah, he’s still concerned about the way Cas throws money at all of his problems, but Dean also has to admit, <em> most </em>of the time, he does so with good intention. In this case, Dean’s crying wallet says he can’t really afford to be saying no, so he doesn’t. </p><p>There’s also the fact that Castiel stops him before they can load up the car, grabs him by the front of his shirt and says, “Thank you for allowing me to help,” with the kind of sincerity you just can’t fake. Of course, he also slams Dean up against the trunk and kisses him with wild abandon right there in the parking lot, which isn’t terrible either. </p><p>They ride home with the windows down and the music up, Cas singing along to all Dean’s favorite songs on Baby’s radio. In truth, if everything else hadn’t already cinched Dean’s interest, that would have done it. In fact, for a few minutes, Dean manages to forget who Cas is, what he’s <em> supposed </em>to be, and all the tension and the terror that’s still between them, all because of his own bullshit and hangups. </p><p>Instead of dwelling on that crap, Dean simply enjoys the way the wind whips through Cas’ hair and turns his cheeks ruddy. He has a hard time keeping his eyes on the road, when staring at Cas’ handsome face is the alternative. More than once, Dean has a near-miss on the highway related to his inability to stop looking at him, to keep from appreciating the way Cas laughs and sings and messes up the words to “Kashmir” without shame. </p><p>Dean has zero regrets. </p><p>***</p><p>“So anyway,” Dean prompts a bit later, from his place up on the ladder he lugged all the way to his room from the garage. “Wait, pass me that piece of—no, that one—yeah, great.” Maybe this is a cowardly way to broach things, but Dean thinks he deserves a break, he’s done a <em> shit </em>ton of being brave recently. He fiddles with the piece of drywall Cas hands up, attempting to fit it into the half-repaired hole in the ceiling, and clears his throat. “Claire,” he continues. </p><p>“What about Claire?”</p><p>Dean doesn’t look down, but he can just imagine the way Castiel is squinting up at him in confusion. Probably best that Dean <em> doesn’t </em>look down, lest he be distracted by the way Cas is filling out his t-shirt and stretching the seams of his jeans, and they’re in goddamn private now, where he has no excuse not to tackle him on sight.</p><p>
  <em> Focus, Dean.  </em>
</p><p>“I mean, I was just wondering… how come you aren’t planning on handing the company over to her, down the road? Why aren’t you training her to take over? Isn’t she starting business school at UCLA in a couple months?” The thing is, Dean’s not being entirely fair here. He knows exactly why Cas hasn’t considered Claire to be his successor. Dean just wants to hear Cas say so out loud, make him admit it to an omega, one he’s trying hard to convince he sees as an equal. Can’t fix what you won’t even cop to. </p><p>There’s a several second pause, and Dean finally chances a glance down, only to find Castiel gaping back at him. Well, not <em> him, </em> per se—he’s sort of staring off into space, looking past Dean and not actually <em> at </em>him. Dean raises his eyebrows and Castiel shakes himself, blinking a few times before sighing.</p><p>“Yes,” he mutters. “I’ve been wondering that myself lately.” </p><p><em> Hmm. Progress, </em>Dean thinks.</p><p>Jumping down off of the ladder, Dean leans in to peck Castiel on the cheek before bending to retrieve a tool he doesn’t actually need. “Gotta be the change, Cas,” he says simply, flipping the tool in his hand. “If you won’t lead the way, who will? If <em> you </em>won’t give Claire a shot, why would anyone else?” He pats Castiel on the side of his face and flashes him a big grin before climbing back up the ladder and returning to work. </p><p>***</p><p>“I feel extremely accomplished,” Castiel declares, staring up at the newly-patched ceiling with something like awe on his face. “Thank you for showing me how to apply and sand the joint compound.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean says with a snort. “Now you can finally fix all those holes in Novak Corp’s ceilings you’ve been holding out on.” He jokes, but to be fair, he’s also standing next to Castiel, looking up at their work with a dopey, proud smile. It’s not the neatest job and the paint doesn’t match, but it’s clean and dry. Most importantly, the rotted pipe above it has been replaced by one with far fewer holes.</p><p>In fact, Dean’s so busy admiring the ceiling, he doesn’t notice at first that Castiel’s no longer doing the same thing. When he drops his gaze, it’s with a little jolt to find the alpha mere inches away, staring <em> him </em>down instead. “Hello, Dean,” Castiel’s gravelly voice says. “I would like to do something else new, now.” </p><p>And that’s how Dean ends up with an armful of paint-flecked and dust-covered sweaty alpha (not that he’s any better off), knocking him to the ground and stripping him naked right there on the crackling paint tarp. </p><p>Just like with the patch job, when Castiel is single-mindedly focused on accomplishing something, there’s no deterring or distracting him. To be fair, Dean definitely doesn’t try, just sits back and lets himself be stripped, kissed, and straddled. Gross as they might appear to be, Castiel doesn’t seem to mind in the least and Dean <em> definitely </em>doesn’t—his alpha still smells like apple pie and everything Dean considers good in the world, so it’s no hardship to endure a little sweat and dirt between them.</p><p>Their hands roam, and Dean figures out pretty quickly what “new” experience Castiel is after. He’s not exactly subtle in the way he’s grinding down on Dean’s cock and ignoring Dean’s ass completely. No hardship there—Dean’s an omega with a dick, and he likes sticking it in things as much as he digs being fucked. Except, while Dean’s done this plenty of times before (in tons of varying ways with all kinds of different people), he’s never been with an alpha interested in being penetrated by an omega. </p><p>The mechanics of it aren’t any different than screwing a beta dude, but the <em> power </em> dynamics are. Suffice it to say, the way Castiel relinquishes all of it so easily, like it’s nothing, like it’s the <em> easiest </em> thing for him to make himself physically vulnerable and to <em> give </em>himself over, is everything to Dean. </p><p>Which is why Dean is content to let him set the pace and control how fast things move—this is Cas’ choice, and Dean doesn’t want him to regret it.</p><p>In that same vein, though, when Castiel decides that he’s going to try and take his dick virtually dry, Dean has no choice but to jump in, throw the brakes, and come to his rescue. Up until that point, Dean thought Cas had just been teasing, rubbing the head of his cock against his entrance while sucking on the lobe of Dean’s ear. Slow, gentle, foreplay stuff, just taking things one step at a time. </p><p>So when Cas makes a genuine effort to sink down on Dean’s cock (that goes about as well as can be expected), Dean is maybe a <em> touch </em>slow to snap into action. He does, though, before Castiel can hurt himself.</p><p>“Whoa, whoa,” Dean chokes out, flipping them quickly in a way that has the sticky plastic of the tarp ripping unpleasantly from the skin of his back as he goes. </p><p>Once Dean’s on top, Castiel scowls up at him. He doesn’t seem to be protesting the move itself, only the pause in their activities. “I can take it, Dean,” Cas insists, all the while continuing to scrabble at Dean’s thighs and attempt to drag his lower body back where he wants it. </p><p>Suppressing a laugh, Dean drops his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder before patting his leg in what he hopes is a comforting way. “Uh, no,” Dean replies, lifting his head to look down at the frustrated alpha pointedly. “No, you can’t. You’re not built like me and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. Trust me,” he adds, which finally makes Castiel stop squirming and relent. “Couple extra steps will make this <em> much </em> more fun for both of us.” </p><p>Despite the skeptical narrowing of his eyes, Castiel gives Dean a curt nod and settles back onto the tarp like he’s doing him a damn favor. “We could relocate to the bed,” Dean suggests. In response, Castiel’s head tips to the side and his glare only gets stonier, so Dean puts up his hands in surrender. “Alright, bossy, fine. Have it your way.” </p><p>With a smirk, Dean reaches behind himself to where there’s a river of slick running down his inner thighs. Getting his fingers nice and wet, he raises two in the air to show Castiel. Suddenly, the alpha seems a lot more receptive to Dean’s plan and he spreads his legs eagerly, watching with wide eyes as Dean slips his hand down between them. </p><p>Weird as Cas is, Dean’s pretty sure he’d be satisfied to watch Dean finger him open, but Dean has other plans. He opens his mouth and ducks his head, taking as much of Cas’ hard cock down his throat as he can. Even without his knot popping, Cas is pretty damn big, and Dean is <em> good </em>but not superhuman. He’d use his free hand for what he can’t fit in his mouth, but then nothing would be holding him up, so, that’s out. </p><p>Cas doesn’t seem to give one single shit. In fact, Dean’s pretty sure he’s forgotten all about rushing to the main event, going boneless against the tarp and moaning like—well, Dean’s most often the one in Cas’ position, so, it’s not the worst ego boost he’s ever had. As Cas’ head tips back, exposing the long line of his throat, Dean grins around his length and huffs a little laugh before going right back to hollowing his cheeks and making things happen. </p><p>Dean takes his time. Longer than he might’ve for someone with experience or even a one-night-stand, but Dean is acutely aware that the way this goes for Cas might impact <em> his </em>ability to top again in the future. Maybe ever, if this whole True Mate thing takes. </p><p>Plus, it doesn’t suck to see Cas writhing on his fingers, shaking and gasping every time Dean finds his prostate—something Dean suspects <em> Cas </em>may have assumed was a myth before today. </p><p>Eventually, though, when Cas is loose and relaxed and pliant, when Dean’s fingers slip easily in and out of him, when he’s so wet with Dean’s slick you’d think <em> he </em>was the omega, Dean shifts back on his heels. He removes his fingers, wipes them on someone’s shirt that’s crumpled nearby, and bites his lip. </p><p>Castiel looks up at him, heavy-lidded and with his chest heaving, but he’s done demanding, apparently. Instead, he just reaches for Dean, gets a hand around the back of his neck, and pulls him down. His kisses are far sweeter than Dean feels like he deserves after what he was just doing, but he’s certainly not going to protest. </p><p>Everything else forgotten, Cas is easy for Dean to get lost in. Cas is warm like summertime and his arms are strong and he doesn’t just smell like home to Dean—he <em> feels </em>it. </p><p>“Are you sure?” Dean asks, as Cas shifts and inadvertently lines them up, Dean’s dick nudging at his entrance. Maybe Dean’s own brain hasn’t quite gotten past that Cas is <em> not </em>built for this, in so many ways. “It’s different than my fingers, and I get if you—”</p><p>Cutting Dean off using his lips, Castiel shakes his head without breaking the kiss. “Hush,” he murmurs against Dean’s mouth. “Go on.” </p><p>So Dean does. He wraps a hand around his cock, fits the head up against Cas’ ring of muscle, and despite all the prep Dean’s done, of course, Castiel clenches. “You have to—”</p><p>“I <em> know,</em>” Castiel grumbles through gritted teeth. </p><p>Rolling his eyes, Dean drops back down Cas’ body and sucks him off some more. He keeps at it all the way until Cas’ knot is threatening to pop and he’s gone totally pliant. Satisfied, Dean licks his way up Cas’ stomach and chest, thinking better of it when he gets paint flecks on his tongue. After quickly spitting them out, Cas is back to grabbing Dean’s face and kissing him like his life depends on it, and Dean lets him.</p><p>This time, Dean pushes in without all the chatter and fanfare, and Castiel’s able to relax around him fairly easily. It takes a few minutes of nails digging into Dean’s shoulders and Dean pressing Castiel on whether he’s <em> really </em>okay, but Castiel just nods against his neck and drags Dean in further with one hand on each ass cheek. </p><p>Being inside Castiel is no less awesome and life-altering than Cas being inside him, and Dean’s eyes go a little crossed as his hips bump the back of his alpha’s thighs. As Castiel’s hand finds its way into Dean’s hair, squeezing a fistful at the roots while he pants and catches his breath, Dean has to run down every ugly, gross, dick-deflating scenario he’s ever come across in his entire lifetime, just to keep from ending this whole thing before it’s time. </p><p>Thankfully, soon enough Castiel is breathlessly urging him on, and Dean’s only too happy to oblige. The positioning isn’t the easiest thing—Cas is fucking <em> built, </em>and his thick thighs aren’t easily slung over Dean’s arm, muscular as he is. After a bit of awkward give and take, Castiel growls and shoves Dean away before immediately flipping over onto his hands and knees, ass in the air. </p><p><em> Holy fuck. </em> Dean has to grab his dick at the sight, the way Cas’ hole glistens with <em> his </em> slick, the crazy reality that an <em> alpha</em>—<em>Dean’s </em> alpha—is presenting for <em> him. </em>Dean knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this is just sex and not life, but at the same time—</p><p>Maybe his body knew what it was doing, accepting Cas’ mark on his skin after all. </p><p>“Come on, Dean,” Castiel demands, rocking back slightly, trying to entice Dean in. </p><p>
  <em> Like he needs it, hot damn.  </em>
</p><p>Grabbing Castiel’s hips, Dean slides home again, and this time he follows it up by drawing back and pressing in fully once more. “God, <em> yes,</em>” Castiel moans, and Dean thinks that’s pretty clear approval for him to go to town.  </p><p>He fucks Cas the way he likes to be fucked, alternating slow and deep with hard and fast. From his viewpoint above, Dean relishes the way Castiel quickly drops from supporting himself with his hands to folding his arms below his head. He’s ridiculously vocal, releasing a punched-out groan whenever Dean hits his prostate and generally demanding Dean “give it” to him in lots of different ways. </p><p>That doesn’t just get Dean hot, it makes him <em> smile</em>, makes him glad he’s (hopefully) giving Cas the kind of experience that’ll leave him decidedly glad he let Dean in. </p><p>When he thinks Cas is getting close, Dean leans forward, puts one hand on the loud-ass crackly tarp and wraps the other around Cas’ waist to stroke his cock. He mouths at the nape of Cas’ neck, finds himself nipping at the skin in the sensitive curve leading down to his shoulder. It would be so <em> easy </em> to bite down, to mark Cas the way Cas inadvertently marked him, except—<em>Dean’s </em>would be a whole different thing.</p><p>He can’t, of course he can’t, but with the blood and arousal coursing hot through his veins, Castiel’s perfect scent in his nose—suddenly, Dean has a lot more respect for Castiel’s ability to hold back on biting him. And he’s an <em> alpha, </em> he’s fucking <em> driven </em>to do so. Dean really needs to give the guy more credit, considering the fact that he’s about an eighth of an inch from puncturing Cas’ skin himself. </p><p>Maybe he just won’t tell him that.</p><p>Beneath him, Castiel yells out as his body locks up, his knot swelling and popping full-on right there in Dean’s hand. After thinking better of it, Dean re-wets his palm with his own slick and works Castiel through his orgasm, squeezing his knot while he practically cries in Dean’s arms. Dean fucks him through it, but goes to pull out once Castiel seems done. As Dean lets his hand fall to the floor, he’s suddenly <em> really </em> glad for the tarp because <em> damn </em>does Cas make a mess when he comes.</p><p>To his surprise, still struggling to catch his breath, Castiel reaches back and tries to hold Dean in place. “Keep going,” he says breathlessly. “I want it, please.” </p><p>Don’t have to tell Dean twice.</p><p>He straightens up, goes back to thrusting, but now Dean’s pulling out all the stops that he knows will get <em> him </em>there without dragging things out too long for Cas. It’s not a long-haul mission by any stretch, he’s already damn close after feeling Castiel fall apart in his hands. When Dean comes, it’s with his fingers wrapped tightly over Cas’ sharp hip bones, buried to the hilt in his ass. </p><p>It’s one of the best orgasms he’s had in a long time, last night’s notwithstanding (<em>don’t ask him to choose)</em>. </p><p>It’s also one of those rare times Dean’s happy as fuck not to be an alpha, since he can slip free and collapse down next to Castiel right away. He knows he’s got a crazy, fucked-out grin plastered across his face, and he’s hard-pressed to care. </p><p>For his part, Castiel groans as he stretches his body, knees cracking and protesting as he tries to straighten them. The pained look on Cas’ face makes Dean feel a little guilty, vowing to get them to the bed the next time—neither of them are eighteen anymore. </p><p>All of a sudden, <em> that </em> plus several of Dean’s random, mid-coital thoughts hit him in a rush, the result being his grin melting right off of his face. <em> Next time. His alpha. </em>That fucking near-bite. A thrill of fear and distress shoots through him, from his heart down to his toes. Inwardly, Dean weighs his options. He could panic and run, that’s one possibility. Or—</p><p>“Why do you smell like that?” Castiel blurts out, his tone close to full-on hysteria. One look at his face reveals wide, terrified eyes and <em> shit, </em>Dean is a dick. </p><p>“Calm down,” he says, feeling his own emotions settle even as the words leave his mouth. “Come here, please.” He opens his arms and Castiel goes, albeit a little warily. Once he’s there, though, Cas buries his face in Dean’s neck and sniffs deeply. </p><p>“Better,” he mutters. “What was that?”</p><p>“Sometimes I forget I’m not the only asshole here with something on the line,” Dean admits, blunt as can be. “I was just—having a moment. I’m good, I swear.” </p><p>The weird truth is, that’s not even a lie. Dean might not be able to help his first instincts—his anger, his defensiveness, his self-preservation. He <em> can </em> control what he does with those feelings, though. He can learn—can <em> teach </em> himself—to not react impulsively. To pause and to <em> think </em>and to weigh the consequences of one thing or another.</p><p>This one isn’t even hard. The sensation of Cas in his arms, the budding possibility in everything they’re building, everything Cas has the <em> potential </em>to change, to help—including Dean’s lonely little life—it’s easy. It’s worth the risk.</p><p>“Cas,” he says carefully, swallowing against the lump in his throat as Castiel shifts so he can look Dean in the eyes. “I’m not sayin’ I’m ready now, but… maybe someday.” </p><p>Cas’ stubbled jaw drops open slightly, and Dean can’t help but grin again. He feels that warm tugging flare in the middle of his chest—no urgency, just an affectionate little pull, drawing him into Cas’ orbit. </p><p>“<em>Some</em>day, killer. Slow your roll.” </p><p>Dean doesn’t have a chance to get another word in edgewise, busy as he is being pressed down into the floor by Castiel’s body and his mouth desperately covering Dean’s. </p><p>He doesn’t mind.</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is wrapping soon, one or two chapters left, depending on how I go :)<br/>thank you all so much for your comments and kudos, I really appreciate them and try to answer them all before I put up new chapters!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Change is Constant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>“Yo, simmer down, cowboy,” Dean demands.</i>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is it! This was a 10k promise and somehow morphed into this, so if it feels short, consider that it could have been 1/5th the length, lol. I specifically didn't want to draw this out, because social justice is not a quick fix, and to depict it honest would not be very interesting for long! This sort of chapter was the best solution to give a realistic, "the work continues" combined with the fairytale happy ending for our characters we all came here for. :)</p><p>Anyway, thank you again to @thetwistedwillow for betaing, you are the best. </p><p>Liz, I hope this lived up to expectations, and that you enjoy your cameo in this chapter ;)</p><p>I hope you guys like the ending. Chapter warnings for: social justice mentions (nothing graphic), top Cas/bottom Dean, knotting, mating, biting/mating bites, rimming.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> No </em>relationship is rainbows and butterflies—or, in Dean and Cas’ case, sex, banter, and cuddles—all of the time. Castiel reminds himself of that fact at least once per week, frequently more often than depending on Dean’s mood and how difficult he’s feeling like being on a given day. Not that Castiel would change Dean or a single thing about him—not even in the moments where he has to remind himself repeatedly of that, too. </p><p>It’s just that Dean is stubborn and used to being on his own, accustomed to taking care of and fending for himself with no help or support from anyone around him. Despite that, he’s made great strides in not seeing Castiel as the enemy, loves Castiel fiercely when they’re together. But that doesn’t mean that he’s keen on taking hand-outs. </p><p>As a result, the two of them squabble near-constantly, and over <em> ridiculous </em>things. Basic human necessities, more often than not. It isn’t as if Castiel’s trying to buy Dean a whole house or set him up with a slush fund—well, not anymore. He tried that, big “hell no”. All he wants these days is to do is ensure that Dean doesn’t starve or freeze or miss a cancerous mole that a routine physical would have caught. Castiel has no problem letting Dean be the proud, self-made omega that he is most of the time. It’s just that when his house is falling down around him and all his fridge has to offer is three different kinds of mustard plus a pickle jar with one chip floating around in it, that’s where he draws the line at turning a blind eye.</p><p>Castiel’s persistence in this area has resulted in him and Dean having the, “It’s not charity, it’s family,” discussion more times than either of them care to count. “Family don’t end in blood, right?” he’ll say, and then Dean will storm out, and Castiel will have to wait for him to come back so that they can argue some more. Alpha or not, Dean is one omega that is <em> not </em>interested in being literally chased, so Castiel eternally resists the urge to follow when he bails on tough conversations. </p><p>Doesn’t stop him from poking the bear, though. </p><p>Anyway, that phrase is <em> Dean’s </em> favorite thing to say, that’s where Castiel learned it. Consequently, Dean absolutely despises it when Castiel uses his words against him, which is frustrating. He adamantly maintains that it’s fair game, seeing as how <em> Dean </em> employs it any time he’s using Castiel’s money to help others who might be reluctant to accept. </p><p>It probably goes without saying that many of those folks tend to be in far better shape than Dean himself, but Castiel often says it, regardless. Dean hates that, too.</p><p>While it may not always appear so, Castiel <em> is </em> steadily learning his way around Dean. Both how and when to push issues, and when to let them go. For instance, Castiel’s discovered that if he keeps <em> his </em> fridge stocked with food and ingredients that Dean enjoys using, when the omega is <em> really </em>hungry, he’ll come over and cook a meal for both of them. To Dean, that’s not accepting a handout—it’s a way that he can equally contribute to Cas’ well-being and happiness while having his own needs met at the same time. Everybody wins.</p><p>It’s not even a trick, Castiel maintains. Not really. Not when Benny won’t make him bacon double cheeseburgers and Dean most definitely will. </p><p>Similarly, Castiel gives up on trying to convince Dean to leave his mold-infested apartment and move in with him. Instead, he simply focuses on verbalizing the truth, which is that he loves having Dean there and is sad and lonely when he’s gone. Castiel makes it a point to call Dean every night that they aren’t together, just like they were doing at the beginning. </p><p>Often, those calls come late at night, since Castiel’s work in the office has tripled after his experience at the protest. He kept his word, setting out to rework Novak Corp from the ground up, if necessary—diving in head first the very Monday after he and Dean had repaired Dean’s ceiling together. </p><p>In doing so, Castiel did not start small. No, the inaugural move he made on Day One was to cut off several snakes at the head, including Zachariah. Allowing attitudes like Zachariah’s to not only exist in Novak Corp but to set the tone for so many subordinates, Castiel understands now how he was directly perpetuating anti-omega culture. Not just that, but if Zachariah had no issues voicing those views directly to Castiel, what must he have been saying behind his back? </p><p>Not that Castiel can prove it, but he’s decided to take his new friends’ at their word that it’s more likely than not Zachariah is bigoted in many other ways, too. Castiel won’t have it. He cleans house, firing Zachariah and a not small number of others in various divisions of the company.</p><p>Speaking of his new friends, Castiel also makes good on his promise to them to, well, do more good. With the help of Max, Castiel is introduced to a local Black omega woman already entrenched in the activism scene and hungry to do more. One casual conversation is all it takes before Castiel is swiftly installing Billie Berry as Novak Corp’s new (and improved) Chief Financial Advisor. Billie is a lawyer specializing in financial services, more qualified via her education <em> and </em>experience than Zach ever was. Recently, she’s been focusing her skills and knowledge on helping struggling nonprofits, including Black Lives Matter L.A. Hence, how she and Max met. </p><p>Considering what Castiel has in mind, he can’t think of anyone better to collaborate with on creating the newest sector of Novak Corp. With Billie’s help, Castiel’s able to create an entirely separate nonprofit that can’t be easily tracked back to the rest of his company, mostly to avoid the media and the public’s interest in his involvement. Undoubtedly, it will eventually come to light, but when that time comes, Castiel will defer to the nonprofit’s leadership on how to handle it. </p><p>It’s not all smooth sailing, though. Castiel’s first big misstep comes with installing said nonprofit leadership, when he immediately assumes Kaia is the best and only choice to offer a role at the very top. </p><p>Excited about his decision and eager to share, Castiel sets up a dinner party. He allows Dean to cook, at Dean’s insistence (lasagna, absolutely <em> amazing), </em> invites Claire and Kaia over, and makes a whole big deal out of popping champagne as he offers Kaia the job. Nonprofit or not, the entire staff will have generous salaries and full benefits, and Castiel assumes Kaia will be <em> thrilled</em>. </p><p>To his shock and dismay, there’s an awkward silence in the room as Kaia pushes her plate away and rubs a hand across her face. If Castiel’s not mistaken, a palpable strain appears between the little alpha and Claire that was definitely not present before. Those suspicions are confirmed when Claire withdraws her hand from Kaia’s leg and averts her eyes from locking with <em> any </em>of them.</p><p>At the opposite end of the table, Dean just continues shoveling his lasagna, a knowing smirk on his face. When Castiel stares at him, he eventually shrugs and raises his eyebrows, like this is something <em> Castiel </em>should have known and expected to happen.</p><p>Castiel has no goddamn idea what’s going on, or where he went wrong.</p><p>Ultimately, the confused tension is defused by Kaia. She gently explains with more grace than Castiel deserves that she and Claire have been arguing about this very possibility, suspecting it was coming. Apparently, it’s led to several dramatic fights where Claire has accused Kaia of using her alpha privilege to step into roles meant for omegas, thereby contributing to the very “patronizing bullshit,” as Claire interjects, that they’re supposed to be fighting against.</p><p>Castiel’s still sort of befuddled, but he’s beginning to catch on. Slowly—he’s got questions, but Kaia’s still talking, so he swallows them for the time being. The thing is, Castiel has already changed his entire plan for the company and for Claire. They’ve discussed it, she’s accepted—it was an easy, obvious decision in the end. Claire will go to school at UCLA, maintain a role in the new nonprofit’s leadership, and after she graduates, Castiel will train her as his successor. </p><p>So he doesn’t really understand—how can Claire be upset about Kaia taking on a role that will, eventually, be subordinate to her?</p><p>“It’s a systemic thing,” Claire eventually explains. “And it’s not even really about Kaia. We’re not just redistributing wealth here, we’ve gotta do it with power and opportunity, too. You know that, Uncle Cas. Isn’t that why you hired Billie? And all the other new people?” </p><p>It also takes <em> Kaia </em>pointing out how, if the point is to elevate the most marginalized voices, the obvious choice is for a Black omega to be at the helm.</p><p>“I’m brown,” Kaia says bluntly. “Not that the police care when they’re beating my ass, but at the end of the day, I’m not Black. If the organization you’re forming is directly connected to Black Lives Matter… then it isn’t right for me to lead. I’ve been guilty in the past, not just of failing to elevate Claire’s voice as an omega, but of taking those spots. I’m trying to do better, trying to pass the mic. We all are,” she adds kindly, offering him a warm smile. “And I still want in on this thing.”</p><p>Alright, all of that Castiel gets, he just… maybe didn’t connect <em> all </em>the dots. </p><p>“One form of oppression doesn’t equal another,” Claire points out. “I’m an omega, but I’m also white. It’s not right for me to take a position meant for a Black person, just because I’m an omega. Intersectionality matters, buddy. If your reform isn’t intersectional, it isn’t shit.” </p><p>“Claire,” Castiel admonishes, without heat. Picking at her lasagna again, Claire just shrugs. Profanity aside, the wheels are turning in Castiel’s head now. “I apologize,” he says. “I’m… still learning.” </p><p>Claire points her fork at him, stabbing it into the air. “That’s why you gotta surround yourself with people who will hold you accountable and not let you get away with shit.”</p><p>In response, Castiel glares down the table at Dean, who’s still grinning at his magically refilled plate. When he glances up, Castiel raises his eyebrows. “What?” Dean asks, his mouth half-full. “I knew they were gonna own your ass, and you wouldn’t have listened to me. If it makes you feel better, I wouldn’t have let you make a fool of yourself to anyone besides these two. And Sam. And Eileen. Maybe Max. Definitely Benny.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Castiel replies dryly. He turns his attention back to Kaia. “Alright,” he says slowly, folding his hands across his lap and leaning back in his chair. “Then I can think of two people who are clearly missing from this meeting.”</p><p>That, of course, is how Max and Alicia end up installed as co-presidents, the first Black omegas to head up any nonprofit of this size in the entire country. Kaia takes a lesser leadership role, as does Claire, and with Billie in their ears, the four of them begin the massive task of actually doing the work. There’s so much to tackle, and Castiel is constantly overwhelmed with their ambition and determination. Max and Alicia aren’t settlers—you cannot tell them to pick one issue and leave the rest for later; they adamantly refuse to leave anyone behind, or any stone unturned.</p><p>From direct wealth redistribution, to legal assistance, to lobbying, to formulating a grant-based public healthcare fund, there’s seemingly no bottom to the siblings’ well. Youth programs, affordable housing, public policy initiatives, worker justice, research—it never ends, it only gets bigger and more complicated. For his part, Castiel ends up dissolving several of his money-sucking “pet” projects, things that were always vanity more than anything else, and redirecting those resources to the new team. </p><p>Whenever Castiel sees one of the four of them on the six o’clock news, whether it's supporting a local protest or sending lawyers to court to defend said protestors, Castiel can almost <em> feel </em> things changing, is sure that he’s finally making a difference. At the same time, it never feels like <em> enough. </em></p><p>In the end, Castiel is still spending most of his days and nights signing and stamping papers in his office, but these days, at least, it’s quietly in pursuit of something <em> good.  </em></p><p>With all of that going on, unwinding with Dean becomes more important than ever. Even several months in, their relationship is still young, requiring careful attention and nurturing, which isn’t always easy with their schedules (and Dean’s attitude). He does his best to adapt. If Castiel can’t always have his omega there physically, the phone is the next best thing. But that doesn’t mean he won’t keep trying to sell Dean on moving.</p><p>During their nightly talks, he knows Dean sees right through him, but Castiel never fails to mention that if Dean lived there, they’d be together at that very moment. If that’s occasionally punctuated with some filthy promises leading to phone sex that leaves Dean panting and writhing on the other end, cursing himself for choosing to sleep where he does? Well, Castiel can <em> hardly </em>be blamed for that.</p><p>Eventually, Dean admits that living with Castiel wouldn’t be the worst thing on the planet. He detracts from the emotional moment (as emotional as a phone conversation can be) by rambling about how he definitely deserves a pool like Castiel has, and how Cas doesn’t spend nearly enough time either in it or tending to his “awesome” garden. </p><p>“That garden deserves better,” Dean grunts.</p><p>“Move here and take care of it,” Castiel challenges, like he doesn’t pay a professional service to do exactly that seven days a week. He makes a mental note to ask the gardeners to let the space deteriorate <em> just </em> a little<em>, </em>in the hopes that it will piss Dean off and push him over the edge to move in. </p><p>All things considered, though, it’s the auto shop that’s the real snag. Not on Castiel’s end, of course—with his connections down at City Hall, he could have the permits pushed through and construction completed on a brand new space for Dean to work out of in Novak Corp by the end of the week. It’d be a write-off, even, bringing a partnered business in-house, and it would surely boost both of their profits.</p><p>No, the hesitation comes from Dean. Surprisingly, he isn’t exactly opposed to moving locations, he’s mostly just… nostalgic. Winchester Custom Cars is his baby, built from scratch with Dean’s blood, sweat, and tears covering each and every inch of the place. As an omega, Dean has had to work twice as hard to be considered half as competent, to become a <em> third </em>as successful as any alpha in his same position, and his little shop off of Skid Row is a testament to that. </p><p>In truth, those revelations have Castiel seeing Dean in a bit of a new light. For him, business has always been just that—business. A new space in a better, higher-traffic, more-expensive area meant more visibility, more customers. He’s moved <em> so </em>many times and never looked back, not even for a second. He’s taken so many things for granted, things Dean would have killed to have access to. More staff and more space simply meant more money, meant the chance to keep expanding his company, meant being able to afford new investments, new ventures, new partnerships. It meant being able to take on so many luxury projects, building his secret pied-à-terre, and the chance to give Claire the entire world.  </p><p>At the end of the day, maybe his business didn’t mean very much to him at all. </p><p>For Dean, a big sale meant eating something more than ramen that week. It meant buying clothes and shoes for Sam, who was Claire’s age when their father died, when Dean was only eighteen. Of course, back then Dean was still working for a family friend, but that’s exactly the point—Dean built what he has from <em> nothing. </em> Every dollar, every client, every final product he’s turned out the door <em> meant something </em>to him, in a way Castiel could never comprehend from his office on the fiftieth floor.</p><p>In fact, all Castiel really <em> did </em> was inherit a multi-million-dollar business and turn it into billion-dollar one with smart investments and smarter people working under him. Big fucking deal, anyone with half a brain could do that. Thinking back on Dean’s life, it pains and awes Castiel to admit, he wouldn’t have done <em> nearly </em> as well with so little at his disposal. It stresses him even more to imagine what <em> Dean </em>might have done years ago with the entirety of Castiel’s empire at his full disposal. </p><p>It’s that last thought that has a lightbulb finally clicking on in Castiel’s head. </p><p>With his mini-epiphany in mind, Castiel changes tack with Dean. He temporarily stops trying to convince him to move in or to relocate his shop. Instead, Castiel sits down with Billie and Sam and works out exactly what it would take to put his plan into motion. </p><p>The mechanics alone take almost three months to iron out. It’s hell for Castiel, waiting and keeping his mouth shut, but he holds onto faith that his patience and planning will all pay off. Some time after the new year rolls around, Billie shows up outside his office around four in the afternoon, all smiles. Becky, of course, opens the door and shows her right in. </p><p>“It’s ready,” Billie announces without pretense, plopping a thick file folder onto Castiel’s desk. It’s weighty, and it makes an audible <em> thud. </em> “Hope you know what you’re doing, big boy.” </p><p>Castiel lifts the folder almost reverently, placing his palm on the top. “I do,” he says. “Thank you for all of your help with this. I couldn’t have done it without you.”</p><p>“And don’t you forget it,” Billie replies, finger in the air as she strides out of his office, disappearing as quickly as she came, the door falling shut behind her. </p><p>Not two minutes later, Becky’s voice comes over Castiel’s intercom. “Mr. Novak? Liz is here for your signing session.” </p><p>“Ah, yes,” Castiel replies out loud, realizing belatedly that he hasn’t hit the button and Becky can’t hear him. He rectifies that quickly. “You can send her in, Becky, thank you.” </p><p>Despite his excitement over his adjusted plans for later tonight, Castiel tables his brimming bevy of emotions for now. Seeing Liz is actually one of the highlights of his week—Castiel’s always had an ear for languages, but never an opportunity to learn to sign. </p><p>As a Business Consultant, most of Liz’s time is spent keeping the bean-counters happy, translating what they <em> think </em>they want into a doable design, but as Novak Corp’s resident ASL expert, she’s sort of fallen into a secondary role. Most of that involves transcribing meetings and conference calls in real-time for Eileen, but over time, it’s evolved to include tutoring Castiel as well. Her work with him is making Eileen’s job all the more accessible, which Eileen surely deserves. And if Castiel simply enjoys Liz’s company and the lessons themselves, he figures there’s very little harm in that.</p><p>It’s just that over the past few months, with all of the changes and the nonprofit demanding his time, Castiel hasn’t had nearly as much available for his lessons. Guiltily, he’d also have to admit that he’s been prioritizing Dean’s company over most other activities as well. In short, he’s cancelled on Liz more times than he’s seen her. Thankfully, he’s finding a routine and things are getting easier now. </p><p>At the very least, Castiel’s determined to make time for <em> all </em>the things that are important to him. </p><p>Liz comes through his door with a big smile on her face, gold and silver-woven hair coiffed to perfection, like she recently visited the salon. She’s adorable and so friendly, the mother Castiel <em> wishes </em>he had, and he unapologetically treats her as such. As she enters, he springs from his chair immediately, moving to genially pull out one of the two leather seats facing his desk. </p><p>“Liz,” he says warmly. “Wonderful to see you.”</p><p>Liz sighs with relief as she settles into her chair. “Took the steps,” she says, with a pointed look that indicates she regrets her choice. “Always seems like a better idea before than after.” </p><p>With a laugh, Castiel pours her a drink; shot of whiskey and Kahlua like always, over rocks. His office bar isn’t remotely as elaborate as the two he has downstairs, but Castiel makes sure to keep the ingredients for her favorite Black Russian stocked for this very occasion. “Shall we?” he signs, once his hands are free and he rounds the desk to sit in his chair again.</p><p>“We shall,” Liz signs back. </p><p>The lesson occupies Castiel for way over the hour he set aside for it. By the time they’re wrapping up and Liz is taking her leave, the sun has started to set outside. Winter in L.A. is unpredictable, today’s weather hovering in the mid-seventies, which is temperate. Checking his watch and noting that it’s long past five-thirty, Castiel’s nerves flare forcefully back to life. He presses the intercom button on his phone.</p><p>“Any messages?” </p><p>Becky responds swiftly. “Just Dean. He called a few minutes ago, wanted to know where you were?”</p><p>“Was he irritated with me?”</p><p>“Not so much—I told him you were with Liz and <em> then </em>he said that you should take your time.”</p><p>“Ah. Well, I will be headed down for the evening, Becky. Enjoy yours.” </p><p>“Um—Mr. Novak? While I have you, you know that thing Billie dropped off the paperwork for? The thing that—that I’m not supposed to know about?”</p><p>Castiel rolls his eyes and rubs his temples. He shouldn’t even be surprised. “Tell me this isn’t common knowledge around the company already,” he says with a sigh.</p><p>“Oh—no, Sir. It’s my job to know things, but I swear on my life, I haven’t told anyone.”</p><p>Castiel sighs again, loudly. </p><p>“Um, so, I was just wondering—when this happens, am I going to be expected to—”</p><p>“We’ll get you help,” Castiel says shortly. “We’ll talk about this later, <em> after </em>it’s official and there is something to talk about. Goodnight, Becky.” Before he can be detained again, Castiel hangs up the phone and closes his eyes, rubbing a finger into each lid. “Alright,” he tells the empty room, shoving his chair back from the desk and standing up. He takes the file folder with him when he goes, clipping a pen to the outside. </p><p>During the ride down the elevator, Castiel’s stomach does flip-flops. It’s rare for him to be nervous—so many years and thousands of business deals, celebrity meetings, and interviews have given Castiel ample experience in that department—but Dean has turned Castiel’s entire world on its head. Anyway, it’s not the proposal itself making him anxious—it’s Dean’s potential reaction to it. Castiel has quickly learned that the best of intentions don’t necessarily matter to Dean at all.</p><p>So while Castiel is incredibly confident that this is the <em> right </em> move in all ways, and that <em> he </em>will be the one shouldering all the risk while Dean gets the reward, that doesn’t mean Dean will see it that way. And if he does, it doesn’t mean he’ll appreciate the offer. </p><p>But this is Castiel’s Hail Mary pass. There’s no other way forward, not that he can see. Dean is firmly uninterested in either handouts or being treated (as he puts it) “like a sugar baby,” nor is there any way for him to renovate and make his shop safe without Castiel’s help. Nor should he be asked to leave it behind. Meeting Dean midway is a thing Castiel has been doing for months now, but there just <em> is no </em>midway on this particular point.</p><p>The only thing he can do, is scrap the entire structure and rebuild from the ground up. </p><p>Pressing his finger to the scanner on his front door, it swings open and Castiel steps inside to the sound of Zeppelin playing. It’s “Whole Lotta Love,” which makes Castiel blush and reminisce on the day he and Dean first met.</p><p><em> How appropriate, </em>he thinks. </p><p>Kicking off his shoes in the middle of the entryway (with silent, insincere apologies to Rowena), Castiel loosens his ties as he heads for the kitchen. His back turned to Castiel, Dean is stirring something over the stove, bopping around in that carefree way that he does when he’s feeling particularly happy.</p><p>At least that bodes well; Dean must have had a successful day at work. </p><p>He must not have heard Castiel enter, must not be able to smell him over whatever is fragrantly simmering in the pan (chicken masala, Castiel guesses). The alpha puts his folder down carefully on the counter before seizing the rare opportunity to surprise Dean. Coming up from behind, he wraps his fingers over the handprint on Dean’s shoulder, watching the way he shudders, how the hairs on the back of his neck prickle right before Castiel’s eyes. </p><p>“We’re gonna need to get your ass a bell,” Dean complains, without turning around, though his scent gives away that he isn’t actually irritated at all. “You’re lucky I didn’t jump and toss our dinner all over the floor.”  </p><p>Closing his eyes, Castiel squeezes Dean around his torso, burying his nose in the omega’s neck. Over time, their scent-bond has only strengthened, made Dean smell even more like <em> home </em> and <em> mate </em> and <em> mine </em>to Castiel than ever before. “That would be terrible,” he says flatly. “Then we’d have to find something else to eat. Whatever would we do?” </p><p>“Feeling frisky or somethin’, Cas?” Dean asks as he turns, flicking the burner off as he goes. The skin next to his eyes crinkles with his soft smile, and Castiel leans in without hesitation to taste it for himself. </p><p>“Or something,” Castiel replies, after breaking a too-short kiss before he can chance getting lost in it. No easy task. “However, there is a matter of some importance that I was hoping to go over with you first.” </p><p>The smile melts from Dean’s face and his hands slip from Castiel’s hips. Castiel knows the feeling. “Oh, come on. Business, Cas? Really? We haven’t seen each other in three days. You sure this can’t wait?” </p><p>“Prior to the phone conversation I had with Becky moments before coming down here, I would have said yes. However, this is—sensitive. It’s not something I want to chance you hearing through the grapevine, or for that matter, from anyone else but me.”</p><p>Huffing a sigh, Dean raises his arms and lets them fall to his sides with a clap. “Lay it on me, I guess. Debbie Downer.” </p><p>Narrowing his eyes, Castiel leans in to steal another kiss, just because. “It’s important, but nothing negative,” he assures Dean. “On the contrary, it’s unfortunate I couldn’t make a bigger deal out of this moment. It’s deserving of celebratory champagne, even a party, but—needs must.” </p><p>“Speaking of parties,” Dean interjects, not catching Castiel’s drift about this being serious at all. “Claire and I were texting about throwing a little thing here, after the benefit next month. You down with that? Big thank you to the nonprofit staff, plus, you know how Claire digs a good rager.” </p><p>Castiel bites back a grin. With Dean on her side, Claire’s successfully been able to talk Castiel into <em> several </em> “ragers,” including a New Year’s Eve bash that had him partying until dawn. Despite keeping him up long past his bedtime (and the subsequent hangovers that prove he isn’t in his early twenties anymore), Castiel finds that he quite likes entertaining. He also likes having people<em>, friends </em>to fill his space, to make his home feel more like just that.  </p><p>“Plus, it’s funny to make Crowley ride the elevator all night, escorting people in and out. He’s like the Alfred to your Bruce Wayne.”</p><p>Castiel raises an eyebrow, pausing in his reach across the counter to retrieve the file folder. “In your fantasy, <em> I </em>am Batman?” </p><p>Dean scoffs and shakes his head. “Uh, no. <em> You </em>are the dorky billionaire who doesn’t know what to do with all your cash. I’m the awesome dude who drives a cool car, wears a mask, and saves the damsels in distress. Plus I have a shit ton of cool gear.” </p><p>Squinting, Castiel cocks his head to the right. “In your fantasy, we are the same person?” </p><p>When Dean throws his head back and lets out an exasperated groan, Castiel turns away so that the omega can’t see his smile. Dean may protest aloud, but Castiel knows he loves pretending to be irked at him while secretly enjoying it. </p><p>When he turns around, sure enough, Dean is staring at him fondly, one hand on his hip. For half of a second, Castiel considers throwing the papers in the air and dragging Dean off to the bedroom, but he manages to control himself. Glancing outside, he decides that they’re not going to do this thing here, though. </p><p>“Perhaps it isn’t the fanfare you deserve or I imagined, but we can at least discuss this someplace a bit more special.” </p><p>Ignoring Dean’s confused look, Castiel grabs his hand and leads him through the glass doors to the patio. They stride quickly past the pool and around the hedges, ducking in practiced fashion through the hidden entrance to Castiel’s rooftop garden oasis.  </p><p>Inside, Castiel turns, walking backward to lead Dean over to a carved stone bench he has placed in the middle. He often sits here when he’s in the mood to watch the bees. Around them, the wind whispers, flowers and leaves rustling gently in the breeze. It’s still quite warm for late evening in January, and Castiel is glad for it. </p><p>The sky, however, is darkening quickly, almost appearing to be threatening rain. That, Castiel ignores as well, even though they’re on the only part of the rooftop that’s not enclosed overhead. After all, this is Southern California. Clouds rarely translate to actual water falling from the sky. </p><p>Regardless of rain, it <em> is </em> getting dark, and Castiel has to leave Dean for a moment to slip back out of the garden and flip on the lights. They’re woven into the vegetation, meant for atmosphere and not reading, but when Castiel returns, he determines that it’s definitely bright enough for what he needs Dean to see. </p><p>Swallowing the lump in his throat and gathering all the courage he possesses, Castiel sits Dean down on the bench, takes a seat beside him, and hands over the folder. Dean looks him over skeptically but doesn’t speak, opting instead to open the manilla cover and turn his attention to the paperwork within. </p><p>Over the next several minutes, Castiel doesn’t so much as dare to breathe. He forces his body to remain still, his hands to tighten their grasp on each other, rather than fidgeting. The world seems to understand, going quiet and airless around them. For the first time, Castiel’s garden feels almost suffocating, the hedges pressing in on him from all sides, the sky a ceiling pushing down instead of a portal to endless freedom.</p><p>Finally, as Dean continues to stare and flip pages he’s read at least three times each with a persistently blank expression on his face, Castiel breaks. </p><p>“Dean,” he blurts out, hands beginning to wring in his lap. “I just want us to be on even ground. I’m tired of attempting to convince you that I mean well, that my money and resources are <em> yours, </em> too, to do with what you like. I know it’s possible you’ll hate this, perhaps even hate me for suggesting it. But I couldn’t—” Castiel cuts himself off and sighs, frustrated at his inability to convey his feelings effectively. “I value you, Dean. For your thoughtful perseverance, your creativity, your <em> drive </em>to succeed and your infinite resourcefulness. I respect and appreciate all of those things, as much as anything else you are. I want you to be my equal partner in all ways, and this was the best solution I could think of to show you—to show you that sentiment is the farthest thing from lip service.” </p><p>He pauses, reaching out to lay a hand on Dean’s thigh. Castiel can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when Dean doesn’t reject him, though he doesn’t respond, either. “This is not pity,” Castiel says firmly. “This is not a <em> handout </em> or anything of the sort. It’s a <em> job, </em>one that you’ve earned and fought for every day of your life, harder than I’ve ever had to even think about.” </p><p>Finally, <em> finally, </em>Dean blows a long stream of air out through pursed lips. “Wow,” is all he says at first, before carefully closing the folder, placing it on the bench, and standing up. As Castiel watches anxiously, Dean laces his fingers behind his head and paces a little, back and forth from the hedge to the bench. He does that three times before stopping dead in his tracks, dropping his hands, and turning to face Castiel.</p><p>“So let me get this straight,” he says, finger wagging, and Castiel braces for the worst. “You thought you’d solve the problem of me not wanting to take handouts from you by handing me <em> half </em>of your company?”</p><p>“I… um, yes?” Castiel volunteers, somehow summoning the will to press on, despite the way it seems things are going. “If you sign those papers, you will be co-C.E.O. of Novak Corp, entitled to all the same rights, responsibilities, and access as I am. Of course, Claire will still replace us when we retire, and if you don’t wish to retire when I do, you and Claire will stay on together. In practice, Dean, you only need to engage with whatever you <em> wish—</em>if you choose to funnel the company’s resources into running Winchester Custom Cars and have nothing to do with the rest, that’s perfectly fine. If you’re interested in attending board meetings and making high-level decisions, that is too.” Castiel cracks a smile. “If you want signing lessons from Liz…” </p><p>Dean’s head snaps up, an indecipherably intense look on his face, and Castiel’s smile fades. “I’m sorry,” he hedges, “Dean, please—”</p><p>Before he can continue, Dean’s stalking forward, and despite the alpha bristling in his chest, Castiel shrinks back, not entirely sure he isn’t going to be hit. Except—as Dean enters his personal space, Castiel suddenly realizes he has it all wrong. Dean doesn’t smell upset at <em> all. </em>He’s—relieved? Overwhelmed, definitely, and—</p><p>“I love you,” Dean grits out roughly, tackling Castiel so hard they both fall backward off of the bench and onto the grass.</p><p>“Oof,” Castiel says, when Dean’s weight lands on his chest and punches out his breath, not that he’s complaining. </p><p>“Hell of a reply,” Dean tells him, and then promptly covers Castiel’s mouth with a hand. “Don’t. Not yet,” he continues, shifting a little so that his knee isn’t in Castiel’s groin, and that’s oddly disappointing. “Hope you know that what I just said has nothing to do with the money, and everything to do with the freedom. And that I loved you way before tonight, but this—” Dean shakes his head, his eyes getting a little misty before he blinks the unshed tears back. </p><p>“It’s nothing,” Castiel insists, pulling away Dean’s hand and framing his face with his own. “Dean, I’ve been telling you all along—none of this means anything without you. I’d give you it all, every dollar, if I thought you’d take it. Or if I thought for a <em> second </em>that you actually wanted to do my job. You don’t,” he caveats. “It’s extremely boring, you would miss painting very much.” </p><p>“I can give Kevin medical benefits,” Dean says quietly, allowing himself a sniffle that’s quickly wiped away with the back of his wrist. He’s quiet for a moment before looking Castiel in the eyes. “You get why I couldn’t just take it before, don’t you? Like, you <em> really </em>get it?” </p><p>Castiel raises his eyebrows and lifts an open palm in the direction of the paperwork still sitting innocuously on the bench. “This action is the equivalent of a multi-billion dollar merger. Trust me, Dean—I <em> get it.</em>” He bites his lip, sucks it back out slowly from between his teeth. “Dean,” he says. “Are we there yet? Can you trust me now?” </p><p>Once again, Dean’s blinking away tears as he nods and lowers his face to Castiel’s, capturing his lips and holding on. “Yeah,” he says. The word comes out muffled because they’re still pressed together, and Castiel melts into him.</p><p>Without warning, Dean jumps up, reaching down to grab Castiel’s hand and yank him up with him. His green eyes are shining and he looks a little wild, like he’s about to do something crazy.</p><p>“Mate me,” Dean demands, and Castiel briefly thinks he’s hallucinating, or that he’s misheard. “Right now, Cas, come on.” </p><p>Not that mating Dean hasn’t been number one on Castiel’s wishlist for a long time now, but this is pretty damn abrupt, and he <em> needs </em>to be sure. “Are you—this wasn’t an attempt to—”</p><p>“No fucking duh,” Dean retorts, grabbing Castiel by his belt loops and yanking him in. “This isn’t tit-for-tat, dumbass. I’ve been ready for a while. I’ve just been…” he trails off and shrugs. “Waiting for the right moment. To say so. To, you know, be sure.” </p><p>“And?” Castiel ask breathlessly, looking up at Dean with astonishment. This is not how he expected this night to go. </p><p>“I’m sure,” Dean murmurs, stepping forward and dropping his lips to Castiel’s neck. He pulls in a deep breath that Castiel feels viscerally in his own chest, pressed against him. “Home,” he says. “You’re my mate, and I’m ready to come home.” </p><p>“Don’t you want to sign first?” Castiel persists, because apparently, he’s an idiot. His body clearly isn’t on the same page, though, already running hands over Dean’s back and grinding into his crotch as best he can with no leverage. </p><p>Dean shifts away then, and Castiel can only assume it’s to search out a pen. But all he does is look Castiel in the eye and say, “Later. <em> After.”  </em></p><p>Of course, now it’s Castiel’s turn to tear up, though Dean’s right there to wipe the mess from his face, soothing thumbs under his eyes and kissing his mouth. “C’mon, Cas,” he says again, voice teasing and sweet but with plenty of heat behind it. </p><p>As Dean’s lips travel down his jaw, Castiel can’t help but ask <em> one </em>more question. This one is selfish, but no less important for it. “This means you’re going to move in here for good, right? Dean, I couldn’t bear to be mated and apart, I—”</p><p> Cutting him off with a kiss, Dean nods vigorously. Their mouths separate with a smack and Castiel feels dizzy, drunk on Dean’s scent and the promise of what’s to come. “We’ll move my stuff tomorrow,” he says, and that’s all Castiel needs to hear.</p><p>Without any further hesitation, he’s tearing at Dean’s clothes while Dean fumbles with Cas’ own, ripping and throwing things aside until they’re both bare. “Wanted this for so long,” Castiel murmurs against the warm skin of Dean’s collarbone, <em> so </em>reminiscent of their first time when he couldn’t get enough of him—his body or his scent. It’s truly a small miracle he didn’t bite Dean then—if Dean only knew how difficult it was to resist, he would likely have kicked Castiel out of bed that night and told him not to come back. </p><p>But now—<em>now, </em> he <em> finally </em> has Dean’s enthusiastic consent to do what his body has been screaming for each time they’ve been together. It’s not a shock to hear that Dean’s been ready for a while—it’s not as if his scent during sex is ambiguous in any way—Castiel’s known. It wasn’t his issue to push, though. Wasn’t <em> for </em>Castiel to poke and prod at, to try and hurry Dean along. </p><p>No, the way they went about things here was perfect—for Dean, of course, but also for Castiel. If Dean had blurted out his desires in the heat of the moment, Castiel’s not sure he would have had the strength to resist. Had that happened, he might have always wondered if Dean was coherent enough to <em> make </em>that decision, and Dean may not have even had the answer. </p><p>That’s a nightmarish thought, and Castiel quickly banishes it in favor of reveling in the beautiful way this moment actually <em> did </em>unravel. </p><p>Pressing Dean down into the soft grass, Castiel breathes him in. He hums with happiness as he exhales Dean’s equal contentment, and beings working his way down Dean’s body. Scattering kisses across his chest, Castiel does his best to find every freckle and christen it, just the way Dean deserves. He spends so much time dragging his lips over Dean’s torso, tonguing around each nipple and eventually, his belly button, that Dean grows anxious beneath him. </p><p>As Castiel tweaks the nipple his mouth isn’t wrapped around with two fingers, smirking at the way Dean jerks and arches beneath him, his omega locates his briefly abandoned attitude. </p><p>“Of all the times to tease, you fucking dick,” Dean pretends to grumble, his hips twitching and his hands working their way from Castiel’s hair to his shoulders and back again. He very obviously wants to push Castiel down to where his cock is rock hard and waiting, but somehow, Dean resists. </p><p>“I’m getting there,” Castiel replies, before sticking out his tongue and letting it trail a wet line over Dean’s stomach. After swirling it past his belly button, Castiel leans up and blows a stream of cool air in his wake, making Dean groan and shiver. </p><p>“<em>Cas, </em> dammit!”</p><p>This time, Castiel doesn’t reply, instead taking his smirk and his tongue further south to tease around the base of Dean’s cock and around his balls. He dips low enough to lick in between Dean’s cheeks, pulling them aside to lap at the river of slick slipping out. Dean is <em> sweet </em> and tastes similar to how he <em> used </em>to smell, without Castiel’s influence altering it. </p><p>He’s never actually told Dean that, unsure of how he would take it—but Castiel <em> loves </em> that Dean is still <em> Dean </em>in so many ways, with or with him. Maybe he should tell him, after all. Dean would probably think that’s pretty—in his words—“awesome”. </p><p>Right now, though, Castiel just concentrates on enjoying the experience—running the flat of his tongue over Dean’s clenching muscle before teasing at the center with the tip. Dean’s fingers are tangled fully in his hair now, and he’s not even pretending not to pull. </p><p>Castiel relishes it, nods his head and moans encouragingly for Dean to take what he wants, whatever he needs. In response, Dean yanks him up and looks at him with intention—he doesn't need to say a word. </p><p>In an instant, Castiel is climbing back up his body as Dean’s legs wrap instinctively around him. When Castiel leans down for a kiss, Dean’s mouth is already opening, seeking to claim and devour, the same way Castiel’s been doing to him. </p><p>“Love you,” Castiel tells him, barely able to separate their lips for long enough to do so. “Love you so much.” </p><p>Dean’s arms tighten at his back, his thighs squeezing his hips, and Castiel can take a hint—he reaches down to line himself up and starts pushing in. Dean doesn’t need prep the way he does, but Castiel’s work with his tongue down there has made the omega relaxed and loose. His cock slides home with very little work on Castiel’s part, leaving him to watch with both fascination and appreciation as Dean’s eyes flutter closed, his head tips back, and his mouth drops open.</p><p>
  <em> Gorgeous.  </em>
</p><p>The unblemished expanse of his throat winds up exposed, and Castiel’s gaze is drawn there immediately, moth to a flame. He’s suddenly glad they haven’t been together in days—his mark will stand out that much more on Dean’s skin for the lack of hickeys and affectionate love bites that usually litter it. </p><p>He wonders if Dean is having the same thoughts, decides he’s probably not, since as Castiel begins to thrust, Dean’s eyes roll back a little in his head. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and Castiel dips his face down to kiss him and take care of that problem himself. It amuses him to see Dean so affected—not that Castiel isn’t overcome by animal instinct and lust every time he and Dean are together, but <em> Dean </em>has never had to control himself in the same way. </p><p>Castiel has <em> so </em> much damn practice doing exactly that, practice <em> fighting </em>losing himself in the moment, it’s automatic for him to default into self-restraint-mode. </p><p>Blowing out a breath, he taps Dean’s cheek lightly to get his attention. Hazy green eyes peek out from under heavy lids, and Castiel smiles down at him, kisses him again, and again. “Are you ready?” </p><p>Below him, Dean grins and bares his teeth, sharper for the way they catch the fairy lights and glint. </p><p>“Are you?” </p><p>Grabbing Dean’s thigh and slinging it over his arm, Castiel answers by picking up the pace, wiping that cocky look right off of Dean’s face as he fucks him, hard. Soon, they’re rocking together, Dean meeting him thrust for thrust, grunting and holding onto Castiel like he’s the harbor in a storm. Around them, the wind picks up but neither of them notice, completely wrapped up in each other the way that they are. </p><p>When he’s close, Castiel can feel the instinct to clamp his teeth over the soft spot at the crook of Dean’s neck really ramping up. Still, he resists, wanting to prolong the pleasure of the moment for as long as possible.</p><p>Despite the fact that an alpha’s instinct to bite is <em> vastly </em>more powerful than an omega’s, it’s Dean that ends up succumbing first. He grabs onto the back of Castiel’s head, yanking him down and biting without hesitation into Castiel’s neck, right as he comes hot and wet between them.</p><p>As Dean’s teeth puncture his skin, all matter of sensation crashes over Castiel’s head like a tidal wave, and he can <em> feel </em> Dean’s orgasm pulsing through him. It’s <em> unbelievable, </em> it’s like nothing Castiel was remotely prepared to feel, and they aren’t even fully bonded yet<em>. </em></p><p>When he lifts his face to gasp, there’s rain pelting down on it, wind whipping and stinging his eyes, ravaging his hair. It’s powerful, and Castiel knows he should pay attention, but the draw to focus on Dean is that much more. </p><p>Dropping his head, Castiel can feel his knot swelling and tugging on Dean’s rim. His climax is right there on the horizon, and the way Dean looks with <em> Castiel’s </em>blood on the side of his mouth—that’s it, it’s all over. </p><p>His conscious brain barely realizes what he’s doing when Castiel opens his mouth and sinks his teeth into Dean’s neck. He bites down hard, holding until the taste of copper and <em> Dean </em> floods his tongue. His peak is there and gone, washing over him as his knot pops fully, the pleasure of coming inside Dean wholly secondary to <em> everything fucking else.  </em></p><p>Panting, Castiel releases his jaw only to reflexively lap around the wound he’s made, groaning with the way Dean is filling his every sense. There are no words for this, nothing Castiel has in his vocabulary to describe the way he feels, how <em> much </em>he feels, both for Dean and for himself. </p><p>He shifts back a bit to find Dean’s eyes, so much clearer now that the orgasm haze is gone and the afterglow is settling in. With an affectionate smile, Dean reaches up to wipe at the side of Castiel’s mouth, his thumb coming away bloody. Castiel’s eyes widen when Dean slips it between his lips and sucks. The muscles in his ass clench and Castiel goes a little cross-eyed, another pulse of come leaking from him and a wave of pleasure coursing through his body. Below him, Dean shivers, like he could feel it too.</p><p>“Wow,” Dean murmurs and <em> oh—he can</em>. “It’s more like, the ghost of a feeling but, still. Wow.” </p><p>Similarly, Castiel feels an echo of Dean’s wonder, separate from his own emotions and less intense, but easily discernible all the same. </p><p>There’s no pain in his bite but Castiel touches it, wanting tangible proof that it’s real. Dean’s eyes follow the movement, crinkling at the corners as Castiel holds himself up on one elbow so that he can get a hand free. His fingers come away dry, the bleeding having already stopped, and when he looks down, he can see that Dean’s bite is the same. </p><p>“Does it hurt?” he asks, eyes wide. </p><p>“No,” Dean replies with amusement. “Feels awesome.” </p><p>Without warning, Dean tightens his grip and flips them onto their sides in a fairly practiced manner. There’s little discomfort (moreso a bit of pleasure, for Castiel). Facing each other in the grass, Castiel has to bat down a few blades that try to tickle his nose and poke him in the eye. “We could have planned this better,” he murmurs.</p><p>“We’ll be free in a couple minutes,” Dean tells him, eyes focused on Castiel’s lips. Unsurprisingly, he leans in to steal a kiss, doing so like he just can’t resist. </p><p>Something pings at the back of Castiel’s memory and he frowns. “The grass is dry,” he observes with a start. “But it was raining. Oh, the papers!” Struggling up onto his elbow again, Castiel manages to get an eye on the bench where the folder was left and is shocked to see that it’s still there, untouched and unharmed. “How—”</p><p>“Yo, simmer down, cowboy,” Dean demands with a wince, tugging Castiel’s shoulder until he falls back on his side.</p><p>“This is impossible,” he mutters, mostly to himself as he runs a hand through his hair. “There was wind, rain—I swear, I—” Castiel darts a glance over at Dean. “I’m not crazy,” he says defensively. </p><p>“Didn’t say you were,” Dean replies with a shrug. “Can’t say I noticed any rain, but I was, uh, pretty well-occupied.” He winks charmingly and Castiel can’t help but grin back. Looking up at the now pitch-black sky, Castiel figures it’s not worth dwelling on. He may never know exactly what happened, but whatever it was… it was magical. Of that, he’s sure. </p><p>Biting his lip, Castiel reaches out to wrap his fingers around Dean’s shoulder, meeting his gaze with open warmth and devotion. </p><p>“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, reading him correctly. “All yours now.” </p><p>“And I’m yours,” Castiel replies easily, tracing the edges of the shape of his own fingers on Dean’s skin. He shifts against the ground; the grass is kinder than any other flooring he owns, but it’s no memory foam mattress. “When we’re able, would you like to sign those forms?” </p><p>Dean pauses, catching Castiel’s hand in his own and bringing his knuckles to his lips. He smiles. “Thought maybe we’d take a swim first. Blow off some steam. Unwind in the hot tub with a little champagne. Take a ride down to the beach in Baby, or maybe fire up that Roadster, really put ‘er to the test. You know, real CEO stuff. Stop by Skid Row on the way, make some people’s nights. Bail out the entirety of LAPD’s holding cells, go knock over a statue and start a new mural, get into some good trouble in the streets. After all…” He pauses, puts Castiel’s hand back on his shoulder. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Ready to use it wisely?” </p><p>Castiel’s never been more sure that he is.</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you enjoyed this story, please consider checking out my<a href="https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/post/625301075067633664/castielslostwings-castielslostwings">Tumblr post</a> on ways you can donate to the cause. <br/>The link is not direct because of AO3 rules.</p><p>Thank you all for coming on this journey! Please, if you enjoyed it, check out my other works or stick around--I have a lot more on the horizon, including a DCBB, a fire &amp; ice timestamp, and several other brand-new stories. :) And if you remember, please recommend this to someone you think might like it! :) </p><p>You can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/caslostwings">Twitter</a> or <a href="https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a>, if you'd like to reach out.</p>
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